Move Past It
by Super Vanilla Bear
Summary: "Mac's overwhelmed mind kicks into overdrive as he watches Dennis, his Dennis, crumble messily. It's happened before, and it'll happen again, but it throws Mac off every single fucking time. It hurts. He can't imagine how it makes Dennis feel. To have his emotions gone one day and then ever-present next and then swishing through his body violently a few days later can't be easy."
1. Chapter One

**10:15 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

This isn't the first time he's woken up wrapped around Dennis.

In fact, this is, like, at least the four hundredth time or something crazy like that. Mac and Charlie used to sleep in the same bed as kids all the time, but they're not kids, and Charlie isn't Dennis. No, Charlie was kinda grubby, and Mac would wake up with grease on his cheeks and peanut butter in his hair (he doesn't know how this happened, so don't bother asking). But Dennis is clean and smells like cinnamon and buries himself in the sheets and comforter, no matter what time of year it is or how sweaty it makes him.

Truthfully (sinfully), he likes it when Dennis (sweats) sleeps. It's the only time he's peaceful.

The late September sun peaks through the curtains Mac was certain he shut last night. Huh. He thought he did a better job securing the apartment. Dennis usually can't sleep with any form of light on, including the actual freaking sun. Mac huffs and curses himself internally and tells his stupid brain to do better next time, even though Dennis is still asleep.

Still asleep. He's still asleep.

Mac remembers Dennis' tongue in his mouth.

Mac remembers sliding Dennis' jeans off without unbuttoning them.

Mac remembers slow, passionate, burning, electrifying kisses and hums of approval.

Mac shudders and turns that part of his brain off.

No.

No no no no.

Dennis is shirtless, and Mac counts the freckles on his shoulder blades because there's no way in hell he's going back to bed now. He can't. He just got the best sleep of his entire life thanks to his best friend (his blood brother). And that's all Dennis can ever be. He can't be anything else. Dennis is Dennis, and Mac is Mac, and that just wouldn't work.

(Or could it?)

But Mac's also got this situation going on here with his boner being, y'know, kinda pressed against Dennis' bare ass. He inhales sharply, eyes darting from the comforter to Dennis' pale shoulders over and over again. His heart thumps wickedly. He really wants to move because this so isn't okay, but he really wants to stay.

(Really wants this moment to never end.)

Mac's about to lay his head back on his pillow when Dennis rolls over. He nearly craps a brick when he feels Dennis' socked feet graze his bare legs. And Dennis Reynolds, the Dennis Reynolds, allows himself to be held completely, wordlessly succumbing (unconsciously) to Mac placing his arm around his warm, solid waist. Dennis' head falls on his chest, and he continues snoring.

And, in the late September sun, Mac kisses Dennis' messy curls and closes his eyes.

 **9:30 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**

They don't talk about it.

Of course they don't. Why should they?

Mac almost expects Dennis to ignore him completely, to shut down any ideas of them being alone together, but that doesn't happen. No, Dennis still lets Mac peel his apples and forces him to take his medicine and watches movies side by side. He and Dennis still go grocery shopping and still sleep in the same bed. If anything, they may be closer than ever before.

But... still... It happened.

It happened.

Mac's brain doesn't seem to want to comprehend it. He shouldn't be like this. It's a sin. He'll go to Hell, and so will Dennis, and this is all his fault. But there's that pesky gnawing sensation building in his gut screaming that what happened on Saturday was okay. That he loves Dennis. That he can't really hide who he is much longer without exploding.

"Will you shut up for a second?" Mac hears Dee scream shrilly; it's enough to snap him out of his thoughts.

Dumb bird.

"Oh, I have to shut up?" Charlie yells, gesturing wildly.

"Yes! And stop waving that dead pigeon around!"

(He doesn't ask.)

"If you don't like Calvin, then leave."

"Great," Dee says. "He has a name. That Goddamn bird has a name."

"Deandra, the only bird in this shithole is you," Frank interjects.

(He's chopping peanuts with his toe knife; again, Mac doesn't ask.)

"Wow. Original, Frank. Really classy stuff."

Frank just makes an obnoxious fart noise and goes back to being disgusting, while Charlie continues his story about how he found this pigeon (Calvin) and how he's going to turn him into a beacon bird because bird law is different from any other law, even if the thing's dead.

Whatever.

There are, like, seventeen or eighteen people in the bar tonight. It's not a bad turn out, not one of those nights when there's no one here other than themselves. Except Dennis, their bartender, is missing, and that kinda makes Mac's stomach do flips. But should he ask about Dennis? Have the guys caught on yet? Do they know his horrible, terrible secret?

"Where's Dennis?" Mac finds himself asking regardless.

"Ugh, where do you think he is?" Dee moans.

Mac raises his eyebrows. "Uh... I dunno... That's kinda why I asked."

"He's been in the bathroom for an hour, you idiot. Probably whoring up his face."

Why did it take Mac so long to notice?

(Okay, he's gotta get better at this security and ocular pat down thing when it comes to Dennis.)

His mind spins and whirls, and he's just so distracted lately. Distracted by Dennis and his mouth and ass and everything-fucking-thing about him.

Mac heads into the guys' bathroom expecting to find Dennis fixing his hair to Dennis standards like he does a bajillion times everyday.

He doesn't expect to find Dennis curled in a ball in the last stall. His arms wrapped around his legs, his head rests on his knees as he trembles and sniffles and tries desperately to hide. Mac drops to his knees immediately and shakes Dennis' shoulders (and thinks of the freckles).

"Bro, hey," he says. "What's going on? You okay?"

He doesn't get a response.

"Den?"

But Dennis remains curled in on himself. Mac's already overwhelmed mind kicks into overdrive as he watches Dennis, his Dennis, crumble messily. It's happened before, and it'll happen again, but it throws Mac off every single fucking time. It hurts. He can't imagine how it makes Dennis feel. To have his emotions gone one day and then ever-present next and then swishing through his body violently a few days later can't be easy.

(Mac knows it isn't easy.)

So, Mac does the only thing he's ever done when this happens.

He wraps his arms around Dennis.

Normally, he never hugs back.

This time, though, Dennis buries his snotty nose into Mac's neck and holds him like he never wants to let go.

 **12:05 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

Mac quintuple checks that their front door and all of their windows are locked. He pulls the curtains in both the living room and their room closed (he triples checks this too). He can barely focus on securing the perimeter with Dennis whimpering in the background, face smushed into the couch cushion. The dude's so exhausted, but he can't stop crying.

(He wishes he could take all the pain away.)

It took him two hours of coaxing and consoling and begging stupid fucking customers (and Frank and Charlie and Dee) to leave them alone. No, Mac certainly did not enjoy sitting in a nasty ass bathroom for that long, but Dennis refused to move, and Mac refused to leave Dennis' side. But, finally, Dennis agreed to be dragged to his Range Rover, pushing his smaller frame as close as he could to Mac's muscular one.

He fell into a whimpering jag in the car.

Each sniffle and mumble tears out bits of Mac's heart.

"We gotta get you to bed, Den," Mac whispers as he takes a seat next to Dennis's head on the couch. He rubs Dennis' back and almost smiles when he doesn't even flinch at the unexpected touch. But he doesn't say or move or do anything, and Mac isn't sure how much longer he can just watch his best friend (his blood brother) go through this.

Dennis doesn't answer.

(He never talks during these breakdowns.)

But it's Mac's job to make sure Dennis is safe and happy (or whatever the version of 'happy' is for Dennis Reynolds). His bones are weary, but complaining at a time like this is stupid. It's plain ridiculous. Dennis is crying and in pain, and Mac has to make him feel better. Needs to make him feel better. God knows Dennis has done that enough for him, probably without even noticing he makes Mac's everyday so much better just by being there.

"Do you wanna sleep here tonight?" Mac asks quietly.

He keeps rubbing Dennis' warm (sweaty) back as he repositions himself, placing his head in Mac's lap. Mac understands that that's obviously Dennis' way of replying. He grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and covers him up the best he can.

Dennis continues whimpering well into the night, but Mac likes to think that him running his fingers through Dennis' curls is enough to keep him grounded.

 **6:45 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

Mac blinks awake.

The apartment is pitch black, and he groans. Shit. He may or may not need a drink.

Stupid alcohol.

(Beautiful alcohol.)

He scrubs his hands down the sides of his face and scratches his head while stretching out like a cat.

Mac finally gains the courage to open his eyes all the way for more than a few seconds, and it immediately causes his awesome heart to beat quickly.

Dennis.

He gets to his feet, ignoring the knots in his back and neck. The blanket he wrapped around Dennis last night falls to the floor. Huh. He isn't in the kitchen, so it's safe to say he probably went to lie down on an actual mattress. But why wouldn't he take Mac to bed too? He and Dennis always sleep together. It's like a rule or a law or something.

Mac doesn't bother knocking before entering their shared bedroom.

"Get out," he hears Dennis mumble.

And he does not sound happy.

"You okay, dude?"

Mac flicks on the light and frowns when Dennis sighs. Great.

It's hard. It's so fucking hard. It's hard because Dennis breaks down. Dennis gets weepy and needy and clings to Mac like he's his savior. But then Dennis stops crying and pushes him away and pretends like they haven't been best friends (blood brothers) for over twenty years. That's twenty years of sleepovers and beer pong and movie binges. Twenty years of repression and guilt and Mac still not having a handle on Dennis's mood swings.

(He can't control them; he knows that now.)

"Shut up, asshole. I'm trying to sleep."

Yikes.

Dennis is flat on his stomach, sprawled out across the comforter in yesterday's clothes. He has his shoes on and everything. Mac knows he should leave him alone, but he can't. He's never able to leave Dennis alone, whether it's post-breakdown or not. He gets short of breath and antsy when his best friend (blood brother) goes to the fucking bathroom to shower.

Mac tentatively takes a few steps forward, leaning over to pull off Dennis's tennis shoes.

"Stop," Dennis commands as Mac finishes tugging at the first shoe.

"Take it easy, Den. I'm just trying to help."

"Don't fucking touch me."

Mac frowns, but, still, he's a passionate guy. He can't help but feel his heart and brain and stomach swell with anger. "What the hell's your problem?"

"You," he grates out. "Leave me alone."

"Dude, I –"

But Dennis sits up quickly and scarily, takes off his left shoe, and violently heaves it right at Mac's face.

"Get out."

Mac gets the message loud and clear.

 **11:10 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

He doesn't hear a peep out of Dennis.

Not a single stupid peep from that shithole of a dude.

Mac spends his time tidying up the apartment, even though everything's in its place because he's kinda a neat freak, and Dennis is so methodical and organized. He misses Dennis. Mac knows he's a giant fucking asshole, but he's Mac's giant fucking asshole. They may fight and argue and yell at each other at the top of their lungs, but they're inseparable, just like always.

He knows he should just let Dennis wake up on his own, roll out of bed and come hang out with him when he's ready, but Mac can't do it. There's this pressure in his heart, and he needs to see Dennis. Needs to know that he's alive and safe. He's just in the other room, not even a hundred feet away. He tries to reason with himself before shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Mac enters their room, armed with booze and orange juice and Tylenol.

"Jesus Christ, Mac," Dennis grumbles, throwing back the comforter he's now bundled beneath.

(Mac stops breathing for a sec when he spies the oversized long sleeved shirt and plaid boxers and bare feet.)

"Hey, buddy!" he says enthusiastically.

Dennis' eyes narrow.

Shit. He looks like he wants to kill someone.

"What did I tell you earlier?" he asks. "Get out of here."

Mac shakes his head and completely ignores him. "I know you want to be left alone, dude, but you gotta drink up, or you're just gonna feel worse."

"I don't care, okay? I don't care."

"Yeah, you've said that to me once or twice over the last twenty years, but, y'know, I don't believe you."

(He emphasizes 'twenty years' because it's clearly the most important part.)

"Oh my fuck," Dennis growls angrily, getting out of bed and shoving Mac in the chest hard.

Mac catches himself on the doorframe with his right hand, clutching on to the supplies with his other hand. "Hands off the merchandise, bro."

"Jesus... Mac... Just leave, alright? Please just go."

He shakes his head. "No way, man. No way."

But then there's this flash of pissed off-ness in Dennis' pretty blue eyes that Mac can't ignore. He's been best friends (blood brothers... nothing more) with Dennis for years, and he only sees that look, that 'homicidal tendencies' look every now and then since he's been on medication.

"Get the fuck out of my room!" Dennis shouts, hitting Mac in the chest over and over again.

The booze and orange juice and Tylenol clatter to the floor.

Mac clenches his jaw and grabs Dennis' hands.

"Dennis!" he screams. "Dennis Dennis Dennis, snap out of it!"

"No! I... I-I don't need this... I'm a golden God, Mac. I don't need you. I don't need anybody."

Mac's still got a hold on Dennis's too skinny wrists. "Dude, you gotta calm down, okay? Everything's gonna be alright."

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Dennis manages to break free from his grasp.

Mac doesn't see the hit coming (c'mon; he's caught off guard) until Dennis' fist connects with his left eye.

And then all Mac sees is red.

He slams Dennis against the bedroom wall. Dennis tries to fight back, but he can't. He can't. He's sweating profusely, and Mac almost finds it in himself to feel bad. But this can't keep happening. He isn't sure how much longer he can put up with this.

Mac may or may not lose his cool temporarily, throwing a nasty left hook right at Dennis's sharp jaw.

He releases his hold on his best friend (blood brother... and definitely nothing more).

Dennis slides down the wall and stares off into space.

"You know what, bro?" Mac manages to get out, his voice almost faltering. "I'm done. I'm so done with you and your ego and all your shit, okay? I'm done."

He raises his hands in surrender as he exits the room.

Mac pretends he doesn't hear Dennis sniffle.

(Pretends he doesn't hear his own heart shattering in the overwhelming silence.)

 **12:50 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

"What? No way!" Dee screeches. "You are not staying here."

Mac sighs and shoves his way inside Dee's apartment anyway. "I can't handle it anymore, Dee. He's just... He's not Dennis."

Dee scrunches her bird eyebrows. "What in the shit are you talking about?"

"He isn't the same. His moods are all over the place. One minute, we're fighting, and the next we're –" he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Having sex? Yeah, we know."

Mac instantly tenses. "You know?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? Of course we know. We all know, Mac."

"But I'm not gay," he reasons.

She nods. "Of course you're not. But you're also not staying here."

"Whhhyyyy?" Mac whines.

"Go make up with your boyfriend."

"Not my boyfriend!" he declares, holding his finger up and stomping away.

 **1:30 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

"Oh my God. What are you doing?!" Mac yells the moment he opens the door to Charlie and Frank's apartment.

And there are, like, fifty fucking cats jammed into their one room.

"Relax, man!" Charlie exclaims. "It's nothing."

"Yeah," Frank says, waving his hand as he continues to munch on... raccoon?

Mac gestures wildly. "Um, it sure as hell looks like you guys are doing something! Is that a jar full of piss?"

Frank stares at him. "Does this not surprise you? We kinda have a thing going on here. We've been doing it for years."

"Whatever," Mac says. "Can I talk to you guys about Dennis for a sec?"

Charlie groans and sinks down to the Cheeto covered floor, much like Dennis did earlier (only their floor isn't covered in Cheetos because Dennis hates those orange puffy things). Mac tries not to grimace as Charlie, his oldest friend in the galaxy, munches on floor Cheetos and pets one of fifty cats. "Dennis this. Dennis that. All you ever want to talk about is Dennis."

"We all know you're banging him," Frank states.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Mac questions, voice jumping up at least three octaves.

"Cuz it's true, dude," Charlie says. "You guys are all in love and shit. It's pretty gross."

"I'm not in love with Dennis," he tells them both slowly, calmly, artic... Articashionously? Whatever. Dennis knows the word. "Speaking of Dennis..."

Both Charlie and Frank groan outwardly.

"You guys suck," Mac says, exiting the nasty ass apartment and slamming the door.

 **12:25 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

He avoids going home for as long as possible.

But the world is tilty and spinny, and... bed. He needs to go to bed.

That bitch Dee won't let him stay with her, and Charlie and Frank are obviously out of the picture. Mac doesn't have any money, so he's forced to return to the apartment. He's only trying to stay away from there because he has no idea what kind of mood Dennis is in, and he honestly doesn't want to find out. It's all so exhausting.

Mac almost expects to find Dennis on the couch watching TV, but the apartment is still dark.

Mac almost doesn't want to go into the bedroom because going in the bedroom means confronting Dennis, and he can't.

He doesn't want to.

But, mostly, he can't.

He burps and scratches his beard and takes a deep breath in before knocking on the door.

"Dennis? Can I come in?"

No answer.

Of course not. Why would he answer? It's Dennis Reynolds, after all.

Mac wants to roundhouse kick the door.

But he settles on twisting the knob instead because drunk tummy and stuff.

Dennis isn't in bed.

In fact, his bed is perfect and pristine and not messy like it was earlier.

Through the blackness of the room, Mac can tell the bathroom light is on.

The water's running.

Showering. He must be taking a shower.

But there's what weird, passionate pressure building up again, and he has to look for himself.

He's pissed off at Dennis because he hit him and screamed at him and told him to leave, but it's been hours, and he's sure Dennis hasn't eaten or taken his meds or drank any water.

Mac knocks several times on the bathroom door.

No answer.

"Okay, you leave me with no choice, dude."

He jiggles the doorknob.

He opens the door.

Red.

All he sees is red.

Butcher knife.

Bloody water.

Dennis.


	2. Chapter Two

**1990**

Dennis Reynolds is a perfect specimen.

He's basically a God, but don't tell Mac that; he just rolls his eyes any time Dennis' narcissism and vanity slips away from his gorgeous lips and into the open air.

The air is so lucky to have him.

No. The world, the universe, the galaxy, is lucky to have him.

But his boxers and jeans are discarded on the library floor, and Mrs. Klinsky is running her hand through his hair.

He wanted this, he reminds himself.

Dennis wanted this. Wants this.

So what if he's only fourteen? Fuck it. He can do what he wants. He can do who he wants, and this just proves it.

The floor is cold, and Dennis is torn between making a mad dash for the exit and staying wrapped in her arms. His hard on has long since dissipated, and he came, so he guesses he liked it? He doesn't know. His brain is foggy and cloudy, and every fiber of his fantastic being is somehow on fire and ice cold at the exact same time.

He wanted this. He wanted this. He wanted this.

Dennis is a perfect specimen. He loves rules and logic and reasoning and being the best. He's clearly the best at banging because what other fourteen year old dude can say he shacked up with a teacher? No one, that's who. He's just so great at being him. He's methodical and knows how to get what he wants and isn't afraid to say otherwise.

But there's this weird burning vibration spasming throughout his core, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. His shoulder aches. His head might explode. He kinda has to puke. But Mrs. Klinsky is here and there and everywhere, and he...

No. No second-guessing. No overthinking. Just move past it.

Move past it.

Eventually, Mrs. Klinsky leaves. Dennis zips up his jeans and buttons his shirt. He fixes his hair perfectly.

He has to be perfect.

Later on that night, when Dee is done crying to him about Mom, Dennis locks himself in his bathroom and throws up until blood vessels in his eyes burst.

 **1994**

By the time he's eighteen, Dennis has perfected the D.E.N.N.I.S. system and all of its infinite glory.

He spends time carefully articulating his sexual encounters, keeping track by tape and notebook, as well as a rating system for his own personal reflections. The girls blur together, and he can't keep them straight unless he consults his sources. He can't be bothered to hold on to that crap anyway. He's Dennis Reynolds, and Dennis Reynolds always moves on.

The day after high school graduation, Dennis goes 'Engage Physically' with Claire Lewis from A.P. Psych at her house on Woodward Lane. They drink tequila from soda cans and eventually migrate from her bedroom to the trampoline outside. The hot June weather soaks into Dennis' skin, but his skin is so amazing that it'll never burn. He doesn't burn. He'll never burn.

His tongue is hot in her mouth, and he's groping her breast when a surge of pain erupts through him.

Fuck.

What the fuck?

He pulls away and palms his chest, glancing down frantically at his polo to make sure a stupid bug or some shit didn't bite him.

"You okay?" Claire asks.

Dennis shushes her.

"Seriously?"

He rolls his eyes. "What do you want, bitch? I'm making sure I won't die from a spider bite."

"Nothing bit you, dipshit."

Claire makes her move to get off the trampoline, but Dennis stops her with a shaky hand.

"Don't go," he tells her, pulling her closer and kissing her lips softly.

It hurts. He doesn't want to kiss her, but he does it anyway. He doesn't even want this, the whole sex thing, right now, but... he has to. His heart screams for him to run run run and never look back. But Claire's lips taste like some dumb green apple artificial bullshit, and this is all just bullshit anyway. He's a golden God. She's a spec of dust or dirt or something, and she's lucky to even be in his presence.

"You're lucky you're hot," she mumbles.

Hot. Yes. He is very hot. Thank you, Claire.

Dennis leaves Claire's house a little after five PM when her parents get home.

Neither of them makes plans to call each other, but Dennis can't care less.

"Hey, boner," Dee calls from her spot on the couch. "Have a nice time getting laid?"

He ignores her and heads straight upstairs. He locks his bedroom door.

Dennis peels off his shirt.

That bitch.

There, right on his chest, is some sort of bite mark.

No. No no no.

Dennis' pulse thumps in his ears. He grabs a clean pair of boxers before locking himself in the bathroom, turning on the shower as hot as it'll go. It stings like a motherfucker when he steps under the burning spray. He scrubs at the bite with an extra moisturizing loofa until his skin bleeds.

Why won't it go away? Why isn't it going away?

His skin can't look like this.

His skin isn't like this.

This doesn't represent him. This doesn't represent him.

 **1997**

"Hey-oooooooo!" Mac exclaims, entering his apartment without knocking.

He never knocks.

Dennis barely has the energy to lift his head from his plushy pillows. It's the only acknowledgement he gives his best friend.

"Dude, why aren't you ready yet?!"

He scrunches his eyebrows. "Ready for what?"

Those three words alone sting as they leave his mouth. He pulls his bundle of blankets over his chin and snuggles deeper into the couch. His bones ache.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Mac shouts, and Dennis winces. He barrels in, setting down a brown paper bag full of crap. He pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels and gestures proudly to it. "It's your big night, Den!"

He blinks, and when did it get so fucking bright in here? "Hey, Mac, can you close those blinds? My head is killing me."

Mac huffs and sighs, but he does it anyway. "I thought you weren't drinking until tonight?"

"Huh?" Dennis questions, squinting. "What? I haven't drank since Thursday."

"It's Sunday, bro."

Dennis shrugs. "I have zero idea where this conversation is going."

"What's today's date?" Mac asks.

He exhales deeply. A rough cough sneaks its way out, and he kinda wants to die. "Dunno..."

Yeah, his perfect specimen thing isn't really working out right now. He kinda just wants to be that specimen that lies back down in bed and dozes off to the white noise of his two fans.

"You're sick!" Mac yells. "Of all the times to get sick, you pick your 21st birthday! That's just cruel, bro."

Oh.

Ohhhh...

Okay. No. He's gotta get up. He could've sworn today was the 11th, but he guesses it's magically the 13th. Mac and Charlie have been looking forward to the day he turns 21 for a long time, even though they've been drinking together 'illegally' for years. He doesn't want to let them down.

No. He doesn't want to let himself down. He's better than this. He's better than anything.

"Uh uh. What're you doing?" Mac pushes him back against the pillows and drapes a fallen blanket over his legs. Dennis immediately kicks all of the blankets away and gets to his feet, swaying and shaking and shivering on his way to his bedroom. Mac stops him about halfway there. "Couch or bed?"

He shakes his head. "No. Party. Like we said."

"Yeah, I'm not letting you go anywhere like this, man. Me and Charlie will celebrate with you later when you're more better."

'More better.' He fucking hates that, and Mac knows it. Dennis clenches his jaw.

"I'm good, Mac. Let me get some shoes on, and we'll head out."

Of course that doesn't happen, though.

The second Mac forces him into bed, Dennis breaks down in tears. Mac doesn't say anything. He rubs Dennis's back through the comforter, sometimes switching it up to run his fingers through his hair. It almost feels good. Almost.

As good as it almost feels, it doesn't stop Dennis from not eating for five days straight and then passing out during a Psych presentation.

 **2001**

25 comes with a whole new set of challenges.

The biggest one is that, apparently, he's decided he's some teenage girl. He's taken a liking to slicing open his thighs where no one will see with a razor blade. Now, he knows what everyone is thinking; why would Dennis Reynolds mutilate his perfect, extraordinary body? Well, the answer is pretty simple.

He just doesn't give a shit anymore.

The D.E.N.N.I.S. system still works and is uber successful when he uses it, but... He just doesn't feel like it. Having sex is meaningless to him.

He follows hollow. Numb. Empty.

Dennis drops fifteen pounds in three weeks. He's punching holes in his belt with a screwdriver.

Marks. Scars. Blemishes. Imperfections.

That's all he sees anymore.

He wishes he never picked up that fucking razor. He's 25 fucking years old. But he's in control. He's super in control.

Dennis sinks down against the bathroom door and pulls his knees to his chest. His fingers ache for that blade. His teeth chatter against the chilliness of this December morning. He wishes he could will himself to climb back into bed with Mac, but he can't. He can't he can't he can't. He can't breathe or eat or think or make sense of anything anymore.

Control.

Control control control.

Dennis swiftly removes his sweatpants and boxers. Shakily grabs the razor. Smiles at the sensation buzzing through his body.

He makes three short, deep cuts that day.

 **2005**

"Sit down, you fucking asshole," Mac demands.

"Ooh, I like it when you're mean," Dennis says.

"Shut the fuck up."

Dennis plops down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Mac rummages around in the refrigerator for what seems like ages before he returns with two peeled and chopped apples in a bowl and their half-used jar of peanut butter. He practically tosses the shit at Dennis. "I'm not hungry."

Mac sighs loudly and sits next to Dennis; Dennis notes he's clenching his left fist so hard the knuckles turn ghost white. "No. None of that crap this time, man. You literally just passed out at the bar. When's the last time you ate anyway?"

Four days and counting.

But he pretends he doesn't know that with a simple shrug.

"You gotta start taking better care of yourself."

Dennis doesn't acknowledge him. Instead, he pokes at the pieces of apple. His eyes droop, and this is nuts. This is stupid. Mac can't force him to eat. He's a grown ass man and can take care of himself. "Can we watch Predator tonight?" he asks, trying to distract Mac from this nonsense.

"Sure," Mac says. "But you gotta eat both apples and at least a quarter of that jar of peanut butter first."

"Fuck you."

Mac slaps his hands on his navy pants and stands up. "Whatever, bro. Your choice. But you're sitting here until you eat."

"I'm not fucking five, Mac."

"I know you're not 'fucking five,' dipshit. But you have to eat."

"I'm in perfect control of my body."

His best friend nods. "Sure. Whatever."

It takes an hour, along with Mac starting Predator, for Dennis to comply and eat the damn food. It's gross and slimy sliding down his throat.

He pukes it up ten minutes before the movie's over. Mac rubs his back.

Later, when Mac's fast asleep in their bed, Dennis tiptoes into the bathroom, locks the door behind him, and pulls out the knife he stole from the kitchen three months ago.

 **2009**

Mac's arm is wrapped tightly around his waist.

He's shirtless, and Dennis can't help but stare at the hard muscles in his shoulders.

Dennis is skinny. He always has been. But Mac's got some serious, solid muscle, and Dennis scoffs and scowls and almost pulls away.

Almost.

But Mac's also always a freaking furnace and keeps Dennis warm, even when the temperature drops to 5 degrees like it is tonight. Dennis is bundled in one of Mac's oversized, ridiculously soft sweatshirts (he's surprised it still has the sleeves), plaid pajama pants, and a pair of thick wool socks. But Mac is shirtless and only wearing boxers, and the heat radiating from him is amazing. It's awesome. It makes Dennis feel safe and sound and secure.

"You 'lright, Den?" Mac slurs, eyes creaking open.

He nods and gulps, suddenly craving a shower and a beer. "I'm good. Go back to sleep."

Mac cuddles his face into Dennis's neck.

Dennis trembles and quivers and tries to tell himself that he does not enjoy this.

He doesn't.

Control.

He needs control and stability and not this.

Okay, that's it.

He lasts ten seconds or less in the bed before dashing to the bathroom.

Mac knocks and screams and threatens to kick the door down while Dennis throws up and cuts and showers.

Once it's all over, Mac doesn't ask about what happened or why.

Dennis curls into a tight ball on his side facing away from Mac and pretends that the fingers soothingly combing through his hair don't exist.

 **2015**

"I'm not sick!" Dennis screams. "I'm not fucking sick, so get those Goddamn things away from me!"

He just fucking woke up, for Christ's sake, and Mac's shoving those stupid pills that the doctor gave him for 'Borderline Personality Disorder' in his face. Dennis hasn't even had the chance to wipe the sleep from his eyes yet. And, seriously, he's still in bed, only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. There's gotta be a better way for Mac to go about this.

But Dennis is just gonna flush those pills down the toilet when Mac isn't looking. They're bullshit anyway.

He has so much control over his mind and body that it's insane.

Perfect.

He's perfect.

"Why don't you just see if they work?" Mac asks, sitting on the edge of the bed by Dennis' feet. "They might make you feel better."

"Feel better?" he questions incredulously. "Me? I've never felt better in my entire life. I'm perfect. I'm a golden G –"

Mac waves him off. "Yeah yeah yeah. You're a golden God. Whatever. Just take the damn pills, Den."

"Why would I take pills for an illness I don't have?"

"Listen," Mac says carefully and softly; it irritates the shit out of Dennis. "I'm not judging you here, bro. But if something's wrong, we gotta fix it. We gotta try to fix it."

Dennis takes the bottle from Mac's hand and throws it out of his bedroom. "There. It's fixed."

"You're such an asshole," he huffs.

Mac goes to retrieve the pill bottle, and Dennis locks the door.

He goes into the bathroom and repeats his daily routine. He smiles as he watches the blood wash away down the drain.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

 **11:55 PM**  
 **On a Friday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Dennis Reynolds wakes up on the kitchen floor in a puddle of his own vomit.

Mac.

Mac Mac Mac.

911.

He doesn't... He doesn't feel good. This isn't right. Mac always helps him when he's like this...

But... Mac isn't here.

Mac isn't here.

Tears stream down his cheeks, and he pinches the skin on his arms hard enough to leave bruises. More imperfections. More more more more more. He needs help. He needs Mac. He needs to stand up, clean himself off, and get back to bed. Mac will be here soon, and he'll know what to do. He's the only one who can take care of him when he's like this.

He knows this. He knows this.

Dennis quivers and shakes and throws up more bile on the tile floor.

His eyes widen.

Mac.

He punched Mac.

He pushed Mac away.

And now he's gone. Gone forever.

Fuck. Why the fuck is he so stupid. He clenches wads of hair in his hands and screams until it turns into sobs.

He doesn't... He doesn't even know how long Mac's been gone.

Dennis takes several deep, trembling breaths, trying desperately to keep that grip on reality.

He somehow manages to push himself off the floor. He pukes in the sink as soon as he's standing. The room sways and tilts, and why is everything so fucking spinny?

Mac.

But then he sees the knife.

He doesn't know what he's thinking or why he's thinking it. It's all just impulse.

Knife. Grabs it. Can't do it here. Can't do anything here.

Dennis returns to his sanctuary – his bathroom – and locks the door. Fills the tub with ice-cold water because fuck him, and fuck Mac, and fuck everybody.

He lowers himself into the water and immediately makes the first cut up his left forearm.

Blood blood blood blood blood.

Dizzy and weird and why?

Fucked up. He's so fucking fucked up.

Mac. Mac.

Slices open his right forearm.

Bleeds. Bleeds until the world makes sense again, and he remembers.

Dennis Reynolds is a perfect specimen, with or without Mac.


	3. Chapter Three

**12:40 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Red and blue swirly lights.

Dennis on a gurney.

Blood.

Oh God. There's so much fucking blood.

Mac throws up on their red tiled floor, and some random ambulance lady asks if he's okay.

Of course he's not fucking okay. He'll never be okay again.

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he runs his hands through his hair so many times he's sure he'll go bald (and then Dennis'll criti... critication?... Fuck - Dennis knows the word – Forever). Mac tries so hard to keep his calm, cool, collected as always composure, but seeing Dennis lifeless and pale is enough to split his soul in half.

Hell. He's going to Hell. So totally going to Hell.

Dennis's arms.

Holy shit. His arms.

Mac's never seen anything remotely like this. He grew up poor and more or less on the streets of Philly, but he's never seen such deep, brutal cuts like that before. Certainly not on his best friend (blood brother). Dennis is gone. He's dead. Mac is almost one hundred percent sure of it.

That's why he can't stop bawling his eyes out.

That's why every breath he takes fucking hurts like a son of a bitch.

"Sir, do you want to ride with us to the hospital?" the same ambulance lady asks.

Jesus, does she not know he's having a moment here?

(He tries to ignore how that thought sounds like Dennis through and through.)

Mac nods and nearly pukes again. "Y-Yeah."

 **2:10 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

This is all his fault. All his fault.

He shouldn't have left. He shouldn't have gone anywhere, not when Dennis needed him the most.

Mac's known Dennis for over twenty years. He breaks down and cries and screams until blood vessels burst in his (gorgeous) blue eyes. He pushes everyone away and starts drinking, like, a shit ton more and relapses on crack. He lets his emotions get the better of him. It's Mac's one and only job to make sure he stays safe. Mac is the one who makes sure Dennis drinks water and juice along with the booze. Mac is the one who forces Dennis to take his medicine daily. Mac hand feeds him and tucks him in and rubs his back when Dennis is too exhausted to do it himself.

He knows how Dennis is.

So why did he leave?

Why the fuck did he get so angry at Dennis?

Dennis may have yelled in his face and punched him, but Mac knows he can't control it. Mac likes to think he's perfectly in control of his feelings, thank you very much, but maybe he isn't. Maybe he's stupid and selfish and is paying the price right now. He shouldn't have ran away from this. He just shouldn't have. If he had stayed, Dennis would be okay.

Sure, Dennis would be pissed, but he'd get over it.

When his best friend (blood brother) dissociates, the first thing he does is force Mac to leave him alone.

He figures that may've been what happened earlier.

Normally, Mac holds Dennis, wrapping him in his arms and forcing him to count until he blinks back into his own body.

But, this time, Mac fucking punched him and told him he was done with his ego and all the shit he puts up with.

(He does put up with shit, but...)

Dennis can't help it. Mac can help it.

(He thinks.)

And now he's sitting in this hospital waiting room that smells like bleach and Listerine and death. He called the rest of the gang a while ago, but it's two AM, and they're all probably plastered out of their minds. Mac bounces his heel up and down on the carpet and prays. Prays for absolution and forgiveness and, most importantly, for Dennis to be okay.

He isn't okay. Neither of them is okay.

But Mac is sure as shit gonna make sure Dennis is alright every second of everyday from now on.

He has no idea how long he's been chewing on his fingernails or fidgeting mercilessly. Time blurs, and oblivion almost welcomes him. He can't take much more of this. His heart fucking hurts, and Dennis was so upset earlier. Why didn't he stay? Why didn't he try to help?

Why did he have to leave and screw everything up?

Selfish. He's Goddamn selfish.

And, for Christ's sake, how long does it take to get an update around here?

Mac sighs and folds his arms over his chest, only to uncross them again.

He prays under his breath until the world stops spinning.

 **4:00 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"What the hell is going on? Where's my brother?"

Mac blinks and jumps into action with amazing, stealthy reflexes. "I dunno."

Wow, some action, dumbass.

But he's only gotten one update on Dennis, which consisted of two minutes with a nurse telling him that Dennis is still alive but heavily sedated. She wouldn't let him go visit him because Mac's not a 'blood relative.'

(Dennis and Mac have the same blood type, so Mac begs to differ.)

"What do you mean you don't know?" she screeches.

Mac runs his fingers through his hair. "I just fucking told you! I don't know!"

"Calm down," Frank says, stepping in the middle of them, and where the shit did he come from?! "I'll get this sorted out."

For once, Mac believes him.

(Frank may not be Dennis's biological father, but he still has shit bags of money, so maybe that'll help.)

Mac crumples back into the same plastic chair he's been sitting in for hours on end. Dee sits across from him, and Charlie, whose eyes are red and face blotchy, wordlessly sits next to Mac. Mac's in the middle of another prayer when Charlie places a brief hand on his thigh before fiddling with his own fingers. It's Charlie's way of reaching out for comfort.

(Mac isn't sure if it's for him or himself.)

"I dunno what I'll do without him," Charlie whispers after a few minutes of painful silence.

Mac's eyes shine bright with tears. "He's not dead, dude."

(His usually confident voice cracks and falters.)

"He's as good as dead," Dee announces. "I should've known better than to leave him alone."

"What do you mean?" Charlie asks.

Dee sits up straighter in her chair, and Mac tries very hard not to vomit literally everywhere. "Dennis is my brother, dipshits. I'm his freaking twin. I'm sure you two bozos wouldn't understand, but we have a connection." Dee's voice is vulnerable and shaky.

"We have a connection too," Mac whispers to no one and hopes after that neither of them heard.

Mac remembers Dennis laughing at his editing choices for Lethal Weapon 6. It was so full of life and boisterous, and he was really happy that day.

Mac remembers coming home to Dennis wearing his sweatpants.

Mac remembers Dennis's bare shoulders touching his and remembers the echo of his soft, pink lips on his.

Mac remembers Dennis reaching out for him in his sleep, grasping at Mac's t-shirt and begging for him to stay.

Mac remembers Dennis. Dennis Reynolds. His Dennis.

And it's enough to make him sick.

He throws up again, and Charlie rubs his back.

Dee breaks down in tears.

 **5:25 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

Dennis is alive.

Yeah, the gang already knew that, but it's still comforting to hear, especially for Mac, whose body and mind are aching for relief.

Frank sorted this whole thing out, putting his insurance information down and paying for the hospital stay. Mac will never understand why hospitals care so much about money. His best friend (blood brother) almost fucking died today, and of course they just want their money. Money isn't Dennis, and the world can survive without money.

Mac's certain that the world would stop turning if Dennis were dead.

"He'll be here for at least three days," Frank informs them. "72 hour psych hold."

Dee nods because she understands. Charlie nods because he's terrified. Mac nods because he just needs to see Dennis.

"One of you can see him now," a nurse says. "But just one."

Dee and Mac exchange glances.

"Go, Mac," Dee whispers, wiping a newly fallen tear from her cheek.

He shakes his head hard. "N-No," he grates out. "You go. You're his sister."

"Mac." Dee's voice is desperate and pleading.

He nods and stands up, wiping his hands on his navy pants.

For once, as Mac walks away down a large, long hallway, he doesn't hear the gang arguing behind him.

Leave it to Dennis's suicide attempt for them to shut the fuck up for once in their Goddamn lives.

The nurse leads him into room 112, and Mac's vision becomes blurry and black.

"He's still sedated," is all he hears.

Soon, he's left alone.

Dennis's hands are cuffed to the bed.

His forearms are heavily bandaged.

Face pale and jaw bruised from Mac's strong blow.

There's an oxygen mask taped over his mouth.

But all Mac sees is blood and the knife and the water and the lifeless, dead form of his best friend (blood brother).

He collapses in a nearby chair and puts his head in his hands.

"Please wake up," he whispers to the ground. "P-Please wake up, Dennis."'

 **9:30 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

They take turns visiting Dennis one at a time.

Dee goes after Mac, followed by Frank and then a very hesitant Charlie.

They file down the hallway one by one, and Mac just yearns to see Dennis again. To touch his hands and run a hand through his messy curls and feel his heart beat beneath his palm.

"He doesn't look so hot," Charlie says quietly as he sits back down next to Mac. He was only back there for five minutes, maybe even less.

All Mac cares about are the rules. The rules state that it's his turn to make the heavy-footed journey to room 112.

"He slit his wrists open and lost a shit ton of blood," Dee points out. "He isn't going to look good."

Mac shrugs. "Dennis always looks good."

Frank grimaces and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Whatever. I'll be back."

Mac storms out of there and hastily into Dennis's room. Dennis is the only one who understands him, unconscious or not.

But, when Mac enters, he sees something incredible.

Dennis's (gorgeous) blue eyes are open.

Holy shit! They're actually fucking open!

"Hey, Den," Mac whispers, running over to him and grabbing his hand.

Dennis glances down and tries to pull away, but he's handcuffed.

"What the hell?" Dennis whispers.

(Okay, those aren't the first words Mac expects to hear.)

"Relax, bro," Mac says. "They're for your own safety."

He frowns when Dennis slams the back of his head against the pillows. "It didn't work..."

"What didn't work, Den?"

Dennis doesn't look at him anymore. "It didn't work..." he repeats. "It didn't work. It didn't work."

 **7:40 PM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"I gotta get out of here, man," Charlie pants, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his jacket sleeve. He's been pacing all around the waiting room for ages, and Mac's head is starting to spin and hurt. He hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours, and Dennis is broken, and everything around him is falling apart so quickly he doesn't even know where to start to rebuild.

Frank gets to his feet. "Me too."

Mac throws his hands up in the air. "Are you shitting me? Dennis is in there sick and hurt, and you're just gonna leave him?"

Frank shrugs, but, honestly, Charlie does look like he's about to collapse in shear panic.

"We can't do anything else for him, Mac," Frank states.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he asks. "We can't just abandon him like this!"

"We aren't abandoning him."

"The fuck you aren't!"

All Mac sees is red.

Red red red.

The color of Dennis's blood and that ugly plastic chair and Charlie's face.

He wants to punch Frank to the moon.

(Little man would never find his way home again.)

"Fine. Whatever," he eventually gives in because he's too exhausted to fight.

Charlie and Frank leave wordlessly. Mac slumps back in the chair and waits for Dee to finish visiting Dennis. He gets that she's his sister and all, but what the actual fuck? Mac and Dennis are obviously the closest, which means, by law or some shit, Mac gets to spend the most time with him. He's lived with him for decades. He knows Dennis still smokes when he's really stressed. He knows Dennis can't sleep without a fan on. He knows Dennis loves chocolate and lives for Predator Tuesdays and snores super loud when he's drunk or sick.

He knows every-fucking-thing about Dennis Reynolds.

Except that he'd be willing to take his own life.

And what if he'd done it? What if he had actually pulled it off?

He wants to kick Dennis in the balls and hug his boney shoulders and whack him in the nose and kiss his perfect lips all at once.

Dennis was gonna leave. Dennis was gonna leave.

Dennis wanted to leave. Dennis is sad that it isn't over.

What the fuck? Why the fuck is this happening?

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

Mac shakes himself back into reality and stares at Dee. Her makeup is smudged to shit, and she looks like a sick, lifeless bird.

"Why?" he croaks.

She sighs. "He's just... really upset... and not himself," she whispers. "I-I can't be in there with him like that."

"He's your brother, Dee!" Mac exclaims. "If you can't be there for him, who else is supposed to be?"

"You!" she screams. "You, you fucking asshole! He's asking for you anyway."

"We'll finish this conversation later!" Mac shouts before bounding down the hall to Dennis' room.

Sure enough, Dennis is somehow awake. Mac doesn't know much about hospitals or medicine or crap like that, but he's kinda surprised no one's knocked Dennis back out yet. Because, to be honest, he sorta looks like shit. His hair flat against his forehead, the curls are damp and lack luster. His baby blues are bloodshot. He looks like Dennis, but he also doesn't look like Dennis.

But, even in this lighting and in his current state, Mac can't help but acknowledge that Dennis glows like the sun.

(Oh, he's so going to Hell.)

"Hey, Den."

Dennis is still hooked up to all these scary machines and wires and oxygen, but Mac catches the faintest hint of a smile anyway. "Hi, Mac. I need your help."

Mac's eyebrows furrow. "What do you mean? You're getting help right now."

"Not that kind of help," he states, voice hoarse and sleepy, like he's just about to conk out on Mac's shoulder during Predator Tuesday. "Get me out of here."

He shakes his head again and again and again. "What? No. You gotta know that's nuts, man. I mean, you tried to, you know..." Mac mimics a knife with his finger slicing through his neck.

"Off myself?" Dennis chuckles. "Yeah, I know what I did... I wanted it to work."

No. No no no.

He isn't hearing this. He definitely isn't hearing this right now.

Dennis is the other half of his heart, and he literally and seriously cannot be saying he'd rather be dead than here with Mac.

"I'm of no use to anyone anymore. Maybe Gods are supposed to die after all."

"Dennis, I don't –"

"Mac, if you really love me, you'll help me."

Love him?

Love him?

OF COURSE HE FUCKING LOVES HIM.

And he will not stand for this manipulation tonight. He knows Dennis's games. He knows them so well, and this hurts so fucking bad.

"Fuck you, Dennis."

Whoa whoa whoa. So not the right thing to say right now.

Mac clears his throat. "I... I mean... Dennis, you aren't thinking clearly."

"On the contrary, Mac, I'm thinking as clearly as ever."

"No you're not, dude. Look, you tried to kill yourself, okay? You're sick, and you need help."

"I'm not sick, you fucking sack of shit!" Dennis screams. The monitors he's hooked up to immediately start going crazy, and Dennis fights so hard with the handcuffs he obviously pops stitches in his right forearm. Nurses and doctors enter quickly, as well as security, each of them trying to hold Dennis down and keep him safe (Mac's job). "Help me, Mac! Help me!"

Mac is ushered out of the room before he can say another word.

The door closes, and the last thing he hears is Dennis whimper his name.


	4. Chapter Four

**1:00 AM**  
 **On a Sunday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

The stitches in his forearm sting like a son of a bitch.

He's uncomfortable, what with the scratchy, thin blanket and paper gown and handcuffs, and there's nothing to fucking do here except stare at the Goddamn wall like some kind of uneducated savage. He needs action. He needs talking or, fuck him, even screaming. He needs to be in control, in charge, of something before he stabs the next person he sees in the eye with a spoon, which would also come a fuck ton easier if he weren't handcuffed.

Him handcuffed (and not in a kinky way)? Dennis scoffs and wants to cross his arms, but dammit. Fuck this motherfucking place right in the fucking asshole. He's just about had enough of this shit. He squirms and wants to dig out the stitches in his carved, imperfect skin and let himself bleed out. It'll be quicker this time, given the drugs he's on and that one of them has to be a blood thinner of some sort; he smiles at the idea. He can still die like he intended.

It was supposed to work.

Yes, he wasn't exactly thinking all that clearly at the time, but he's rational. He's calculated and methodical and organized, and he obviously must've meant it if he went far enough to destroy more of his dwindling, aging physical appearance. He meant it, and it was supposed to work. He was supposed to die in that bathtub with his wrists slashed open, no note or anything left behind because fuck that pansy ass shit; it sounds like something Mac would do.

He hates Mac.

This is all Mac's fault anyway.

If he were given two or three more fucking minutes, he'd be dead. But, no, superhero asshole Mac just had to swoop in and save the day. Mac always tries so hard to make Dennis who he wants Dennis to be. It's never about him. It's about Mac's stupid ego and righteousness and the fact that he has to watch over Dennis like a fucking hawk, and he can't fucking stand it.

He can't do this anymore.

Dennis has been weighing his options for the better part of an hour now. He woke up with blurry vision and a coppery mouth, stomach begging for a drink and head swimming from whatever drugs course through his veins. Every idea, from jumping out the window to filling his IV with air bubbles to stabbing his jugular with a scalpel, goes straight down the shitter because he can't move his Goddamn hands. There's a nurse that comes by his room every ten minutes because little Dennis Reynolds is stupid enough to let himself be put on suicide watch.

Fucking Mac.

Dennis can't do anything. He can't control this situation, not when he's without the bare minimum resources to do so. It's part of the reason he asked Mac for help in the first place.

See, people think he's crazy because he tried to kill himself, but Dennis is aware. Dennis knows what he's doing, even if it can be rather impulsive, and he trusts his thought process. He just wanted Mac to get him out of here. He wanted to go back to their apartment, refill the bathtub, and overdose to make it a little less messy. Mac doesn't like messes, and, to be honest, neither does Dennis. He wants this attempt to be quick and simple.

But it's too late.

For once in his life, Dennis believes he might be trapped. He can't talk or manipulate his way out of this one.

Sweat drips down the sides of his face. His head spins, and his brain leaves his body. He floats and watches himself struggle from space, begging for someone or something to help him. Fake Dennis screws his eyes shut and tosses and turns in the hospital bed; Real Dennis observes because it's all he really can do.

Real Dennis notes a doctor shoving more drugs directly into his IV port.

Both Real and Fake Dennis want, need, this to be over.

But, of course, they don't get their wish.

 **7:15 AM**  
 **On a Sunday**

Sundays belong to Dennis and Mac.

They both have the day day off because the bar isn't usually busy. Mac sleeps in while Dennis dusts the apartment and cooks pancakes he won't eat anyway. Mac emerges hours later, typically right before noon, hair a fucking mess and shoulders glistening in the sunlight. He eats pancakes while Dennis reads the newspaper across from him.

Mac always forces him to eat an apple or yogurt or a few bites of sugar free cereal, just something light to help the meds settle in his stomach.

He gets nauseous and pukey without it, but of course he'll never admit that to Mac.

After a belated breakfast, Mac tugs Dennis into the shower with him. They make out and go down on each other, and Dennis runs his fingers through Mac's sudsy hair. Mac kisses and holds him, and, sure, it feels nice. It's different to acknowledge that he wants to be wanted, especially and specifically by Mac, but he thinks he's coming around to it.

The rest of their Sundays are dedicated to watching movies. Mac likes to wrap himself completely around Dennis, and Dennis likes the warmth seeping into his bones. He doesn't even really need a blanket, but Mac covers him regardless, as if blankets will help keep him out of harm's way. Dennis always dozes off, and Mac always pinches and kisses him awake, dragging him to bed even though it's barely eight o'clock.

Dennis loves Sundays. They're one of the only things in life that brings him joy.

But, today, on this awful fucking Sunday, he's staring at some psychologist bitch whose eyeing him up and down like he's crazy or something.

"How're you feeling today, Mr. Reynolds?" she asks.

She has a huge nose and an even bigger forehead, as well as 'bitch' practically tattooed across her chubby cheeks.

Dennis doesn't move. Doesn't answer.

"Do you want to tell me why you tried to commit suicide?"

He furrows his eyebrows.

Why the fuck does anyone ever 'try to commit suicide?'

But, even though this conversation is making Dennis hot, he doesn't feel like talking. He face reddens, and he shivers in the bed, and when the fuck will these fucking handcuffs get taken off?

"Do you want another blanket?" she questions.

Oh, for fuck's sake, will she ever leave? Can't she understand that he doesn't give a shit? He wants to go home. He wants Mac to hug him and be with him in his final moments because there's no way in shit he can just go back out into the real world. Nope. No fucking way.

"Mac," he rasps. "I want Mac."

It's the first thing he's said since he screamed at Mac last night, begging Mac to help him escape and die.

The absolutely horrid lady looks at him. "Is Mac your boyfriend?"

"What makes you assume I'm gay?"

The nerve of this... this pig thing sitting in front of him. Does she not know who she's talking to here?

"Are you?"

"I'm nothing and no one," he says.

"What do you mean?"

Dennis closes his eyes and tells her nothing more.

He's spoken enough as it is.

 **2:45 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

Some doctor called him 'grossly underweight' and threatened to give him a feeding tube.

Well, fuck him, and fuck this hospital. Fuck the feeding tube. Fuck eating and sleeping and breathing and fuck fucking Mac for doing this to him.

He's in control. He's so in control it's incomprehensible.

"You have to eat something, sweetie," a nurse tells him. "Dr. Roman is very serious about inserting that feeding tube, and, trust me, it's incredibly uncomfortable."

It can't be anymore uncomfortable than this. He's handcuffed to a bed and already has one tube shoved up his penis.

There's a rubbery slab of turkey on an obnoxious red tray, along with soggy vegetables and a suspicious Jell-O cup.

No apples. No yogurt. No cereal.

No Mac.

The nurse sighs when Dennis continues staring at the wall blankly. "If you want to get out of here, you have to eat."

"Will you uncuff me?" he asks.

"That's not my decision to make," she says.

"Then get the fuck out of my room."

 **5:10 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

"You look like shit."

Dennis' eyes pop open, and he licks his dry lips. Through hazy vision, he makes out the silhouette of his bird of a sister. Dee takes a seat in the chair beside his bed. Dennis watches her cross her legs and place her purse filled with who the fuck knows what on the nasty floor "Do you have any chapstick?" he croaks.

Weirdly enough, Dee pulls out a tube of cherry chapstick without making fun of him or giving him shit. She moisturizes his lips because he's still fucking handcuffed. He tries not to show that he's thankful because, come on, that's a sign of weakness, a sign that he's lost control. Dennis is perfectly in control, just like he always has been and always will be.

"Have you eaten?" Dee questions quietly.

Dennis immediately shakes his head. "No. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

He sighs and swallows thickly. "Don't treat me differently, Dee."

Dee's cheeks go from ugly tan to bright red. "What do you mean 'don't treat you differently?' You tried to kill yourself, asshole!"

"Why do you care?"

"Are you shitting me?"

Dennis shrugs and then shakes his head.

"I care because you're my brother. You're an idiot and a moron, but that doesn't mean that I don't care about you."

He glanced over at her and tries to ignore the tears shining in her eyes. "This is weird."

"Yeah, no shit," Dee says.

For a split second, remorse bubbles up his throat, and Dennis almost feels... guilty. Guilty for putting his sister through something like this. It must've been awful. Dennis isn't sure he'd feel much of anything if Dee tried to off herself, but he's really fucked up in the emotions department, and everyone knows it. But, if he were a normal person with normal feelings, he thinks he'd be upset.

"I wanna go home," he tells Dee. "And I want these Goddamn handcuffs gone."

"Yeah, well maybe that can happen when you eat and stop giving everyone shit for trying to help you."

Dennis scoffs. "I don't need help. I'm in control. This doesn't mean shit. I'll be up and running in a couple days."

But Dee just glares at him like he's lost his fucking mind. "Look at your wrists, cocksucker!" she screeches shrilly. "That is not what someone who is control does! You're sick, Dennis, and you really need to get help."

He's not sick.

He's not fucking sick.

"I've been reading up on BPD," Dee tells him, but it falls on deaf ears.

She's probably reciting facts and other shit that's supposed to make him feel better, feel less like a loser who cut himself like a teenage girl and more like the Dennis Reynolds he used to be.

 **6:05 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

Not long after Dee exits his room, Dennis leaves his body.

He isn't real anyway.

None of this is real.

So he floats around in space and tries to get away from himself for a while. Only, seriously, space is terrifying. Space is vast and never ending, and Dennis can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe because everything ends and begins and leaves and enters all at once. He feels Mac's lips brush against his. He feels the sun and stars burning through his skin, lighting him up and setting him on fire. Space has nothing.

Dennis is nothing.

There's a hand on Fake Dennis' chest.

Dumbass Fake Dennis. He's such a moron and an idiot, just like Dee said. Fucking stupid asshole.

Fake Dennis can't breathe, but Real Dennis smiles as he stares down at his body.

The smile fades quickly, though, once Real Dennis notices whose hand is on his chest.

Mac.

Mac Mac Mac.

But that's Fake Dennis's body, not his. It doesn't belong to him.

Real Dennis shoots down into Fake Dennis's body so fast it makes his head spin.

"Hey," Mac soothes. "Welcome back."

Dennis squints and coughs. "Huh?"

"I'm gonna go get your doctor, okay?"

He shakes his head. It's... This is... It's profoundly dumb. It's so fucking dumb, and he hurts everywhere. "No," he whispers. "Please don't go, Mac."

Dennis feels the ghost of lips on his forehead.

"I'll be right back. I swear."

Mac leaves, and so does Dennis.

He doesn't want to be here anyway.

 **7:40 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

He fidgets, popping his knuckles over and over again. The movement singes his broken skin, but the sensation is welcoming. It means he's feeling something, which means whatever the fuck they keep sticking in the IV port when he panics is wearing off again. Good. He doesn't need it anyway. But, no matter how much he says he's fine and in total control of his body, no one listens to him, especially not Mac.

Mac's sitting on the edge of Dennis's hospital bed. He rubs Dennis's foot through the waffle weave blanket. "I'm gonna bring you some of your stuff tomorrow," Mac says.

"Why?" Dennis asks softly.

He notes that Mac's eyebrows furrow deeply. "You're gonna be here for a while, Den. I figured you'd want your toothbrush and hair products and shit."

"A while?"

Mac rubs his forehead. "Are they not telling you anything?"

Dennis shrugs. Truthfully, he hasn't been listening to anything anyone is saying lately, except for Mac.

"Frank thinks you should be admitted."

"Well, that's fucking dumb. I'm already in the hospital," Dennis says, but then he instantly frowns. "No. No way."

"You're being taken up to the fifth floor today. We don't know for how long just yet," Mac informs.

"What?" Dennis scoffs. "Why can't I just come home with you? And don't you dare start with that 'you tried to off yourself' bullshit because I'm so fucking sick of hearing that."

Home. He wants to go home. Why is this happening?

Two or three more minutes. Motherfucker. He could be dead right now, soaring through a comfortable breeze of nothingness.

Fuck.

"You need help, Den," Mac whispers, rubbing his shin with his long fingers. "I... I can't lose you..."

"I'm right here, Mac."

"No, you're not, bro. You're not yourself. You're so far away all the time. You're barely sleeping or eating. You're having these freak out episodes, and it scares me."

"Why don't you want me to come home?" Dennis asks, trying so fucking hard to deny the tears swelling in his eyes.

Mac scoots closer to him, but only just a little bit. "I want you to come home, Den. I miss you so much. But you need this. You need to get the help that's being offered to you."

He's an idiot because tears kind of begin to stream down his cheeks. Mac wipes them away with his thumb. "I wanna go home," Dennis whispers. "I... I-I wanna die..."

Tears. But, this time, they're from Mac. "That's why you need help right there. You're depressed as shit, man, and your moods are fucking nuts, no offense."

"Can't you talk to Frank? Why can't I just come home with you? I'm sure you'd be an excellent nurse."

He tries to smile and wink, but his insides are swollen, and his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.

"I can't help you, Dennis."

Dennis may or may not breakdown in sobs, and Mac may or may not hold him until long after visiting hours are over.

He can't be helped. He's useless.


	5. Chapter Five

**9:35 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

"I don't get it," Charlie says as he plops down on the couch, putting his dirty shoes on the coffee table and making himself comfortable. He starts munching on the bag of sour cream and onion chips Mac was devouring due to stress earlier. "I don't get why Dennis can't just come home."

Mac sighs and pinches his nose. Goddammit. "Dude, we've been over this, like, a bajillion times. Dennis can't come home. He needs help."

Charlie shrugs. "Yeah, but, like, you could help him. You're his boyfriend and stuff."

"I'm not his boyfriend!" Mac screeches.

His friend rolls his eyes. "Whatever, bro. I still think this whole thing is weird, y'know? Like why did Dennis do that to himself in the first place?" Charlie still obnoxiously crunches on chips, wiping his fingers on his tattered jeans instead of the sofa. Mac just figures this display of respect and courtesy (he learned that word from Dennis) is because of what happened.

Dennis tried to kill himself.

He slit his wrists open with a kitchen knife and was super fucking close to dying.

Mac's stomach tilts and whirls, like a dumb ride at a fair, and he wants to collapse. He wants to lie down on the damn floor and sleep the hours away until he doesn't feel so numb and upset and exhausted anymore. But he can't. He absolutely can't. He left Dennis alone once, and it almost cost him his life. Mac is going to protect Dennis forever and ever until the day he dies.

He only came home to pack up some belongings for his best friend (blood brother).

The thought of having to go through Dennis' stuff, sort through it, and make sure it's 'safe' is enough to make Mac want to curl in a ball. As much as Dennis needs Mac (and, trust him, Dennis definitely does need him, no matter how much he enjoys denying it), Mac also needs Dennis. Dennis has this way of keeping him calm, even if he can be a total dick. It's the comfort and familiarity that soothes away Mac's anxieties. It's the way Dennis holds his hand and rubs his thumb across his knuckles. It's the way Dennis sweetly kisses his nose before they fall asleep. It's the way Dennis protects him and loves him.

Mac shoves his tears and heartache aside.

Dennis needs him. He can't afford to fall apart now.

So, while Charlie unhelpfully watches TV and eats every snack Mac thinks they own, Mac rifles through Dennis' dresser.

Dennis is staying in the hospital's psychiatric ward. He's already starting new medication, and he'll be much safer there than anywhere else.

(It's so hard for Mac to admit that, to actually admit he failed Dennis and couldn't keep him safe, but he knows in his gut it's for the best.)

He'll be in group therapies and individual therapy. He'll learn how to handle the BPD and coping mechanisms.

(Mac read all of that in a brochure Frank left on a table in Dennis' room.)

He carefully folds a few shirts, both short and long sleeved because he's not sure what Dennis prefers; it usually just depends on the temperature outside and his mood. He grabs jeans, socks, and underwear. He removes the strings from Dennis' shoes, jackets, and sweatpants just like a doctor lady told him to. Mac puts the toiletries in the top compartment of a suitcase he's sure Dennis paid so much money for. He doesn't pack a razor.

Mac's zipping the suitcase when he stops, fingers trembling and heart pounding.

He grabs one of his sweatshirts, the thick, plushy blue one that brings out Dennis' eyes, and places it on top, hoping maybe, just maybe, an object of his might bring him some comfort. Dennis usually wears that thing when he's sleepy or drunk or sick or simply lying around the apartment. Mac gulps and hopes that there's a chance it'll help.

(Mac throws in a picture of the two of them at the Poconos a few years back, just in case.)

 **11:15 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

By the time Mac makes it back to the hospital, Dennis is out like a light, snoring loudly.

(And, thankfully, he switched his enrollment in the program from being 'involuntary' to 'voluntary,' whatever the shit that means.)

He's still waiting to be transferred to a room upstairs. Mac frowns and scowls and wants to scream at whoever the fuck is in charge because Dennis deserves better than this, but he doesn't. There's no reason for him to get angry or to feel much of anything because it isn't going to make Dennis any better. He wants Dennis to get better so badly it actually hurts.

Visiting hours ended forever ago, but Mac's seeing this through, even if Dennis is asleep throughout the entire thing. The new meds screwing with his brain, he sleeps now more than he ever has, but Mac guesses that's a good thing. Dennis needs his rest. He collapses in a nearby chair, placing Dennis' suitcase on the ground and putting his head in his hands.

(He doesn't stay in this position long, though, because Dennis is here; Mac loves watching Dennis.)

And, holy shit, he did not mean for that to come off as creepily as it did. The point is that Mac may not see Dennis for a while. He talked to one of Dennis's new therapists earlier, and she said he won't be able to visit until Dennis earns the right for him to do so. It's a point system or some shit like that. It's stupid and dumb, but whatever.

So, he takes in the image of Dennis sleeping and snoring and being cute like he's gonna die tomorrow.

 **12:00 AM**  
 **On a Monday**

Mac's sure he's gonna break the bathroom sink.

(He does have super incredible strength.)

His knuckles ghost white, he holds on to the porcelain for dear life. He prays and sweats and gags and prays even more. He prays that God will go easy on both him and Dennis because he isn't sure how much more they can take. He prays that Dennis recovers quickly and can be let out of the psychiatric ward as soon as possible.

(Mac thinks he'll implode without Dennis by his side.)

There's a harsh bang on the bathroom door, even though it's fucking midnight, and can't whoever is out there know that he's going through something right now?

Mac rolls his eyes and washes his hands. He shoulder checks the douchebag banging so loudly on the way back to Dennis' room. Fucking idiot.

There are two doctors and a nurse in Dennis's room.

(Mac tries very hard to keep the puke inside his tummy.)

Sweat starts pooling on his forehead, even though it's a chilly autumn night in Philly. He isn't even wearing a jacket, and he feels like he's on fire. Mac enters the room on shaky legs, willing himself to hold it together because he has to. He has to be strong for Dennis, who is actually awake and staring straight at him. Mac sprints to his side.

"Hey, Den," he whispers. Mac grabs Dennis's still cuffed hand, clenching it tightly.

Dennis's eyes are glazed and unfocused, but he stares at Mac like he's got a chicken on his head or some crazy shit. "'s goin' on?" he slurs.

"They're getting ready to take you upstairs," Mac informs quietly.

He expects the anger to shoot back into Dennis's eyes, to fill up the entire galaxy and leave him hanging by a thread. But that doesn't happen. Mac figures Dennis is probably so drugged up that he can't even feel emotions, much less be able to act on them. "Oh..."

Dennis's doctor in the ICU whispers at Mac to say his goodbyes.

"You're gonna be okay, dude," he whispers. Dennis' grip tightens, and Mac swallows thickly when he sees the tears swell in his baby blues. "Don't cry. Don't cry, Den. I'll be back to visit you as soon as I can. But you gotta take care of yourself up there, okay? Listen to what your doctors say, otherwise I will break in and kick your ass."

A couple tears stream down Dennis's pale cheeks. "'m scared," he admits, words so fragile Mac's afraid he'll break just by saying them.

He nods, frowning. "I know. Me too. But you'll be alright. You're gonna be okay, man."

Mac brushes Dennis' lifeless, messy curls back and gives his hand one final squeeze.

"See ya later, Den," he says as they wheel Dennis away, waving lamely.

The second his best friend (blood brother) is out of sight, Mac sinks to the floor.

(He wishes he'd kissed Dennis, but now it's too late.)

 **5:20 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

A little over 24 hours after Dennis is admitted into the psychiatric ward (he calls it by its full name because 'psych ward' or 'mental hospital' sounds weird and off-putting – another word he learned from Dennis – to him), Mac struggles to sleep. He tosses and turns in their bed, sweating and cursing and clinging on to Dennis' pillow like it's his only lifeline.

Mac needs Dennis. He needs him to come home, like, ASAP.

He's never needed Dennis more than he has right now.

But this whole thing fucking sucks because he knows Dennis needs to get more better. He can't just keep on going the way he's been going for the last two decades. Mac's watched his health go away enough to know that Dennis was bound to snap eventually. He's glad it happened at 38 and that he survived, rather than it happening at 50 and dying.

(He doesn't know why that makes sense, but it does in his mind.)

Mac stares at Dennis' side of the bed and sighs. He almost starts crying, but he can't cry. There comes a point where he's gotta buck up and be a man about this. He wants nothing more than to wake up with Dennis in his arms, curled against him and absorbing some of the love and adoration Dennis only gives to Mac and no one else. Dennis always soothes his fingers through his hair when he's anxious, but he isn't here anymore, and it sucks.

(At least he's still alive.)

He remembers him and Dennis burrowing beneath the comforter and watching movies in this bed. He remembers Dennis giving him a full body massage when he accidentally roundhouse kicked a motherfucking steel (it wasn't steel) door too hard. He remembers Dennis falling asleep with his head on his chest for the very first time over twenty years ago. He remembers brushing his lips against Dennis' forehead and thanking God for him and these moments.

Mac remembers so much, and it hurts more than he can fathom.

But he can't break. He can't crumble. He can't fall.

He's gotta protect Dennis.

 **11:55 AM**  
 **On a Thursday**

Dennis has been gone for three days.

It's literally only been three days, but Mac feels like it's been an entire Goddamn century. He doesn't leave the apartment because he isn't sure his feet can carry him. He clutches his cell phone hard enough to probably crush it to pieces in case the hospital calls. His need to see Dennis, to know that he's alive and still breathing and hanging in there, is so overwhelming he doesn't go to work. He can't go to work. He can't do anything but try to breathe and stare off into space.

He's sprawled out on the couch beneath the blanket he used to cover Dennis up with after his episode last week. It still smells like him, like cinnamon and spice (and everything nice). Mac inhales deeply and almost chokes when their apartment door rattles. He sits up quickly and reaches for the baseball bat beneath the sofa as he sees Charlie's face.

"Dude, you scared the shit out of me," Mac manages to get out, crumpling back into his warm spot.

"Oops. Sorry, bro," Charlie says. He sits down on the arm of the couch. "How's it goin'? We haven't seen you at the bar lately."

Mac shrugs. "I just don't feel like going in there."

It's true. He doesn't feel like doing anything. Even showering and brushing his teeth is exhausting.

"I know I'm no head doctor, but I don't think this is healthy."

"You eat stickers," Mac points out deflectively, trying to shove it back in Charlie's face.

Charlie immediately gets excited. "Stickers are great, man!"

Mac frowns. "Is there something that you want?"

"Come out with us tonight. We're picking out Halloween costumes."

"No thanks."

"I'm not taking no for an answer," Charlie says teasingly. He tries to pull Mac into a sitting position, but Mac is like a rock and cannot be moved. He goes boneless and lets Charlie maneuver the weight, but he can't because he's a tiny bitch. "Not fair! Not fair!"

As they wrestle on the couch, Mac smiles for the first time in three days.

(He tries not to feel super guilty about it.)

 **7:30 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

Mac is sitting on Dee's sofa when it happens.

They're just watching Thunder Gun Express. Charlie and Frank left a while ago to play an extended version of Nightcrawlers, and now it's him and Dee. He tries not to look at Dee because, while she is an ugly bird lady, she reminds him of Dennis. They're brother and sister, so it makes sense in his head, but Dee talks like Dennis, and it's hard to hear.

"You're crying, asshole," Dee points out right after the super long dong shot.

Mac ignores her. He wrings his hands together and doesn't bother wiping the tears away. He's never been without Dennis for this long. Sure, it's only been a few days, but it fucking blows. Even when Dennis was at Penn, he used to visit constantly, spending the night in his dorm room on his small twin bed. Sometimes, they kissed. Sometimes, they went to parties. Sometimes, he just watched Dennis study at his desk, diligently pouring over notes and flipping through textbooks. Mac didn't understand any of it, but watching Dennis in the faint light from a tiny lamp made his sharp features pop. Mac used to watch his angular jaw exclusively.

"Hey, snap out of it," he hears Dee say.

But there's a wave of sheer terror that drapes over his body like a blanket. He's trapped in a land of nothingness, filled with sorrow and repression and guilt and the want – the need – for absolution. He has to tell Dennis he's sorry. He has to tell Dennis he fucked up in every way imaginable. He should've been there.

He should've been there for him.

"Mac," he hears. "Mac, you gotta calm down."

He can't breathe.

He's fucking trapped in this world without Dennis by his side. How can he be okay? How can he calm down? How can he live a normal life? There's a bajillion thoughts swirling through his brain, and he wants to go home. He wants to go home and wrap himself in Dennis' blanket and cry himself to sleep. He wants to go home and sleep in their bed and smell Dennis' cologne and fabric softener wafting off everything in the room.

(Mac tries super fucking hard to glue himself back together again, but he shatters as soon as Dee's boney hands grasp his shoulders.)

 **10:10 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"Shit," Dee says quietly. "You look fucking disgusting."

Mac turns away from her, and where is he?

Couch. Crouched blanket. Dee's apartment.

He shields his face from the sun, burying it in the cushion. He could've sworn he went back to the apartment, but obviously he didn't. Obviously he's fucking losing his mind because he can't remember things, and he wants Dennis so badly. His heart can't take it anymore.

"I know you're worried," Dee says, and Mac pretends he isn't listening. "Dennis will be okay. He fucked up, but he's gonna get his shit together, and then you two can go back to banging or whatever it is you're doing."

Mac closes his eyes. "We're not banging."

(They totally are.)

"Whatever, dickbag. Just take care of yourself, okay?"

Dee closes the curtains and clicks off some lamp somewhere in the room, even though Mac knows it's morning.

(He dreams of finding Dennis in that icy bathwater with blood pouring from sliced arteries.)

 **8:15 PM**  
 **On a Saturday**

Mac holds a bottle of tequila to his chest.

Fuck. It's empty.

Empty empty empty.

Just like him.

Just like Dennis.

Mac falls asleep on Dennis' side of the bed, bottle in one hand and Dennis's soft grey sweater in the other.

(He dreams of Dennis's funeral and of his own body burning alive.)


	6. Chapter Six

**Day One**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Vision blurry.

Can't lift head.

Limbs weigh a fuck ton.

Hurts.

Really fucking hurts.

Mac.

World and space and galaxy and universe nothing but dread echoing through heart.

Needs to leave his body but can't. Needs to leave everything behind.

Closes eyes. Lets weariness grab him in chokehold and swiftly pull him under.

 **Day Four**

He doesn't remember a hell of a lot from the last few days.

What Dennis knows is that this sure as fuck isn't the hospital room he was in before. This one is way too white and sterile. It's so quiet he can quite literally hear when someone drops a pen, and he fucking hates clichés. He also knows, more importantly, that his hands are no longer cuffed. He's free. He can finally move his Goddamn arms around.

His first course of action is to tug the blankets over his shoulders and up to his chin. He curls in on himself and wills his mind to slow down long enough for him to drift off. He's spent most of his time in oblivion recently, and he definitely prefers blissful darkness to the chaotic, loud Earth. At least when he's asleep he doesn't have to do anything. He doesn't have to act like a manipulative, narcissistic, prophet-robot with ultimate control over everything.

Mac.

Jesus Christ. Of course his first real, conscious thoughts are of that jackass.

He sighs, and his arms are oddly disconnected to his body. Useless pasta noodles that just stew in boiling water but do nothing anything else. Dennis can rationalize that it's probably from whatever meds he's on with a combination of several near hallucinations where he completely severed his arms from his body. The logistics are all fucked up because he could realistically only cut off one arm, but, hey, maybe Mac would do it for him.

He isn't sure Mac wants anything to do with him.

But that's a different story for another day.

For now, he's gonna shove everything deep, deep down inside and keep an eye on it.

 **Day Six**

A lady named Martha tells him he has to get out of bed and go to the 9:00 AM group therapy session.

Dennis laughs in her face and bundles himself in blankets.

Martha threatens to take away a 'point,' whatever the shit that is, and claims that he's now well enough to attend.

Apparently, he already has six points for good behavior. Dennis has spent most of the last six days unconscious, but what the fuck? He'll take the points because, according to Martha, they're a reward system. He gets a point per day just for doing what he's supposed to; it's more than life's ever given him. But, still, this bed is now his home, and he doesn't want to leave it.

"You have five minutes, Mr. Reynolds," Martha says.

He isn't some useless kid. He can get up when he pleases.

Dennis almost shouts that in Martha's face, but Martha's eyes are genuine, and her smile doesn't appear to be false. He blinks and then nods.

Martha exits his extremely sterile room, and Dennis sits up for the first time in six days other than to use the restroom; he's only done that three or four times that he can remember because each visit requires a nurse, usually Martha or Sarah, sitting outside the door while he goes. Everyone wants to make sure he isn't hurting himself. Pshh... Dennis rolls his eyes to no one.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. A rush of blood swims into his head, and he breathes deeply. He stares at his bandaged arms and briefly wants to rip them open again to avoid this, but he shoves his socked feet into lace-less shoes instead. Dennis needs to take a shower and regain some sense of normalcy by going through his daily routine, but group is in a few minutes, and he already knows he can't skip it anymore.

Wait. Why is he complying with this shit?

Oh well. He doesn't have the energy to fight it.

Dennis rifles through the miniature dresser in the corner of the room. Someone put his stuff away, and he can obviously tell Mac packed the bag. He throws on Mac's thick, comfortable blue sweatshirt and smiles briefly at the warmth seeping back into his bones. He thinks his actual soul might be aching for Mac, but he has to forcefully push those thoughts away.

That's really hard to do, though, when he finds a slightly crumpled picture of them skiing at the Poconos three years ago under the shirt.

Dennis shuts the drawer quickly and wipes the sweat from his brow.

His stomach lurches, but he holds himself together.

Dennis leaves the room and heads down the long, narrow hallway. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his grey sweatpants and keeps staring at the floor as he walks. Group therapy is at the very end of the maze-looking hall. A large area magically opens up behind brown double doors. Everyone is already in a circle. Dennis doesn't make eye contact with any of them as he sits.

"Good morning," a manly voice begins.

There's a shitty symphony of greetings, but Dennis remains quiet, fiddling with his thumbs. He doesn't get why his heart is beating so quickly or why it feels as if all eyes are on him, but this sucks. This absolutely fucking sucks, and he will not stand for it.

Except, really, he doesn't want to go back to his room. It's stuffy in there.

Mostly, he just wants Mac.

No. No Mac.

Dennis can't help but wonder what day it is. He wonders if it's Sunday; he would be cooking Mac breakfast right now. He wonders if it's Tuesday; he and Mac would be watching Predator later in the evening, but Dennis would be looking forward to it the entire day. He wonders if it's Friday; Paddy's would be at its busiest, and Dennis would drag Mac to the bathroom and push him against the wall, kissing him to try to calm his nerves.

He wonders if it's Sunday. He just wants it to be Sunday. He's closest to Mac on Sundays.

"It's nice to see you, Dennis," he hears, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Dennis blinks and looks up. The room sways, and the sunlight pours through the open windows. It's bright as shit. They should close the curtains before he goes blind. Dennis isn't exactly sure what to say in this moment because all he can see is a blurry man sitting across from him. He can't make out details of his face. He glances next to him to see a woman, pale and skinny like Dee. Like his sister. God, why the fuck is he missing Dee right now?

"Now is usually the time where you say 'good morning,'" the woman who looks like Dee tells him.

Dennis nods, clearing his throat. "Um, yeah... Good morning..."

The man goes on and makes people talk about their sissy problems.

Dennis drowns them out.

He can't quite leave like he wants to in both a physical and mental sense. Usually, if he's stressed or bored or anxious, it doesn't take much for his brain to go into overdrive. He launches into space and disconnects with his body for a little while; sometimes, it's comforting, and other times it's absolutely fucking terrifying. He thinks it'd offer him solace at the moment.

Dennis is unsure of how long he's been sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair when his ass goes numb. He squirms and fidgets and runs a hand through his hair. Gross. Greasy. He needs to fucking shower. How dare he just come out like this into the open world? Does he have no standards? Jesus, one suicide attempt, and this is how he's going to act?

He has to be in control, and, right now, he doesn't feel like he is.

Breathe.

He has to breathe.

Dennis's heart pounds as another fucking person starts babbling. He can't hear what he or she or whatever is saying.

"How about you, Dennis?" cuts through to him, mostly because of the use of his name. When he was younger, he didn't like to make eye contact or speak to people. His mom and Frank would use his name over and over again, berating him and belittling him into interacting.

He can feel every eye in the room glaring at him.

Sweat pools around the collar of Mac's sweatshirt.

"Uh, I'm sorry..." Dennis mumbles. "What're we talking about?"

He still can't quite see the man, most likely a therapist or some shit, and it freaks him out. What the fuck is in these new meds? "Your day. How is your day going?"

Dennis shrugs, but he doesn't bother answering because the answer is obvious.

Today fucking sucks. Tomorrow will fucking suck. Every-fucking-day will fucking suck for the rest of eternity.

"Why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself?"

Dennis's hands are trembling so hard. He squeezes them together to less the noticeability.

He doubts it works.

Dennis can feel himself losing grip with reality or consciousness; he can't quite tell which. When things get bad, Mac holds him. Mac places Dennis's hand on Mac's chest, and Dennis listens to heartbeats while Mac counts out loud. When things get bad, Mac reassures him and offers to make him hot chocolate and rubs his back the rest of the day if need be.

"Anything for you, Den," Mac would whisper later when Dennis had nearly whimpered himself to sleep. "Anything."

Dennis jumps up from his seat and dashes down the hall.

He doesn't give a shit about what he leaves behind.

 **Day Seven**

"It's Monday," Dr. Nichols, an old, greying man, tells him.

Monday.

It's Monday.

Dennis nods and continues biting the skin around his thumb. He's already bitten the skin off his other fingers, which are bandaged courtesy of Martha.

"How're you holding up, Dennis?" Dr. Nichols asks.

Dr. Nichols is alright, he supposes. He's Dennis' counselor or mental health professional or whatever the shit you want to call him (his words; not Dennis'). He smells like hard candy and doesn't care if Dennis smokes in his office, which is nice because smoking is now the only thing he can do to relieve the constant pressure building in his skull.

"I'm okay," he whispers. He doesn't feel like talking.

"Sarah said you had another nightmare last night. What was it about?"

Dennis would scoff, but that takes too much energy. "Sarah doesn't know shit."

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it," Dr. Nichols says. "But we have to talk about something. This is a new place and a new experience. You can't bottle everything up."

His eyebrows furrow. "I'm not bottling up anything, doctor."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Can I go now?"

"Sorry," he says, and Dennis sighs. "We still have 45 minutes left. Cigarette?"

Dennis takes one from the carton, leaning forward and allowing Dr. Nichols to light it for him. The nicotine buzzes around in his brain, muddling his drowning, irritating thoughts. It releases some tension, and Dennis sinks into a surprisingly comfortable chair. He inhales and exhales and holds the cigarette in between his lips as he curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest.

"Why do you always sit like that in here?"

Great. Now he wants to analyze how Dennis sits.

Fuck him.

"Dunno," Dennis states.

"Do you sleep like that too? Huddled up in a ball?"

"Dude, quit asking me about my sleeping habits. You're creeping me out."

"Do you sleep like that with Mac?"

Mac's name slices through him like a ninja light-sword (that's what Mac and Charlie call it; Dennis has given up on correcting them).

Dennis clenches his jaw. "Don't talk about Mac."

"I'm just observing –"

"Yeah," Dennis cuts him off. "Well don't. Quit observing. Quit pointing out my flaws. Quit asking me all these stupid fucking questions."

"I'm only trying to –"

"Shut the fuck up!" Dennis screams, standing up and stubbing the cigarette out on his sweatpants. He doesn't give a shit that it burns a fuck ton. He drops the butt on the ground, stomping on it and smearing ash on the fancy ass carpet.

Dr. Nichols gets to his feet too, and Dennis steps back. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Please just leave me alone," Dennis mumbles. "I... I'm so fucking tired."

"Tired of what?"

"This. Everything. Myself."

"Why're you tired of yourself, Dennis?"

Dennis crumples on to Dr. Nichols leather couch, woozy from exhaustion and from that fucking new meal plan he's on. He curls in on himself again, hiding his face in his knees. "Can't you see why, dude? I'm a fucking mess. My mom's dead. Frank's a giant bag of dicks. My sister thinks I'm a psychopath. Charlie thoroughly believes I murdered someone," he lets out, breathing erratically. "And Mac... Mac fucking hates me..."

Dr. Nichols goes on a licensed spiel about family dynamics and BPD.

Dennis doesn't hear a Goddamn word he says.

Instead, he thinks about Mac. Mondays were never super special for either of them. But they'd come home from Paddy's and shower together, so that was nice.

It's enough to get him through the rest of the session without exploding.

 **Day Twelve**

His stitches are gone.

What's left are two ugly, long pink scares, one on each forearm from wrist to elbow. He doesn't know what the fuck he was thinking doing this to himself. He can't wear short sleeves, even though sometimes sweaters and jackets irritate his skin if he isn't wearing bandages. Dennis has Martha wrap his arms up for him after each supervised shower.

"They look better," Martha tells him as she rubs scar reducer over the wounds. "And you finished your tray. Good job."

Dennis frowns and wants to say he's not a toddler, but he's so tired of that argument. He just shrugs instead. The meal plan sucks ass. He has to eat three square meals a day, all high in fiber and protein and nutrients, along with two snacks. He tried hard to hide the food so he didn't have to eat, but people like Martha and Sarah and Dr. Nichols are not to be fucked around with in that department. So, Dennis eats whatever they give him, even if it has no taste.

"Group is in an hour."

Dennis nods, rolling the sleeves of Mac's sweatshirt down. He lies back against the too flat pillows, folding his hands behind his head.

He tries not to scowl and remembers his Lamaze breathing exercises when Sarah looks in on him every twenty minutes.

 **Day Fifteen**

He barely has the strength to drag himself to Dr. Nichols' office.

Exhaustion weighs heavily on his aching muscles, forcing every movement to shoot uncomfortable knots of pain throughout his veins. He collapses wordlessly in his usual chair, curling up and resting his head on the arm of the furniture. Dennis sniffles and wipes his nose on Mac's sweatshirt. Dr. Nichols hands him a tissue.

"Did one of the nurses give you something for that?"

He nods. Sarah gave him a dose of DayQuil with his other meds earlier.

"You feel up for today's session?"

Dennis nods again. "'m fine." He crosses his arms over his chest and coughs. He almost smiles when Dr. Nichols grimaces.

Dude's a doctor, and he can't handle physically sick people.

Luckily, Dennis is actually sick in the head, as well as the body. Double win for him.

"I see here that you have enough points for a visitor," Dr. Nichols starts. "Any thought on who you're inviting?"

Dennis shrugs. "Don't have to see anybody if I don't want to, right?"

"That's right, but don't you want to see Mac? Or maybe your sister?"

"Nah."

It's true. He's been here for two weeks now, and he's kinda let himself go. He's put on some weight and almost fills out his once way too big clothes. He doesn't want to hear Dee's fat jokes or criticisms because he's worked hard for this, even if she doesn't believe it. His hair is longer than usual, and he's got this beard thing going on at the moment. He can shave if he's supervised, but he just doesn't want to. All he's been wearing for weeks are sweats, padding around the sterile hallways and his room in socks because shoes can suck his dick.

Maybe he more than 'kinda' let himself go. It's probably more like 'really' let himself go.

Dennis explains his reasoning for not wanting to see Dee with a lot less details than what he's thinking.

"You look much healthier, Dennis," Dr. Nichols says.

Dennis eyes him skeptically. "Dude, I'm running, like, a 102 degree fever. That's so not attractive."

"You're physically ill right now. Your appearance is going to look a bit... rougher."

"Gee, thanks, doc."

Dr. Nichols smiles faintly at him, and Dennis returns it even though his insides are surely freezing.

"What about Mac? Why don't you want to see him?"

"I... I don't think he wants to see me..." Dennis says quietly. "I-I mean, I punched him. I pushed him away. I told him I wanted to die. I've been taking advantage of him for years. I drink too much and get too angry and take it out on him. I've... I've really fucked up things with him, doc. I don't understand how he could ever want to see me again, much less drive out here and visit."

Dr. Nichols hands Dennis the whole box of tissues; Dennis may or may not be close to tears.

"Dennis, Mac has called to check in on you everyday," he says.

"Everyday?"

The doctor nods. Dennis sits up straight in the chair, uncurling himself and planting his socked feet firmly on the floor. "Of course, we can't tell him anything about your status, but he still calls, often multiple times a day. He misses you, Dennis."

Dennis scoffs. "Maybe," he reasons. "But... But... I dunno how to feel about him anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"He just... He won't admit it, y'know? I always have to dodge bullets and hide what I feel about him from everyone... It hurts sometimes."

"From what you've told me, Mac is very against the idea of he himself being gay."

"Yeah, he's a crazy fucking Catholic. I don't care about his religion, or any religion really, but shouldn't he own up to it?" Dennis asks. "What about me is so embarrassing?"

"There's nothing embarrassing about you, Dennis. I'm proud of you for accepting who you are. Maybe Mac needs that support from you now."

 **Day Sixteen**

Somehow, Dr. Nichols convinced Dennis to let Mac visit him.

It was either Mac or Dee, so of course he's going to choose Mac because Dee's a bird.

He takes his supervised ten minute shower with Sarah right outside the door. He tries to scrub the hospital off of him, but he figures there's nothing he can do to wash that away. He doesn't bother with his hair or beard, but he does put on jeans and a long sleeved shirt, carefully folding Mac's sweatshirt and putting it in the dresser. He puts on his socks and lace-less tennis shoes, stifling coughs and trying super hard to hold himself together.

Control. He's in control. He knows he is. He can feel it in his bones.

Well, he can feel the control, along with the effects of his fever.

"You look nice," Martha tells him as she knocks on his door. "Mac's waiting for you."

Dennis's brain rattles, and he sniffles, foregoing wiping his nose on his sleeve for an actual tissue because he cannot ruin his outfit with sickness again. He follows Martha down the hall to the group therapy room. A few others are visiting with friends and families, and Dennis nods politely at them as he walks by.

Mac is sitting at the far left table, drumming his fingers on the polished wood.

Dennis gulps and swallows thickly and runs his hands through his hair. Mac stands the moment he sees him.

Mac engulfs him in a huge hug, wrapping around him fully. Dennis melts into the embrace.

"You look amazing, Den!" he says happily once he pulls away. Dennis notes his touch doesn't linger any longer than it's 'supposed' to. "You okay?"

He nods and wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Yeah. Sick," he whispers since he doesn't have much of a voice left.

"Aw, I'm sorry, bro."

Dennis takes a seat, and Mac plops across from him. "How've you been?" Dennis asks, coughing immediately after.

Fuck this sickness in the ass.

Mac clearly avoids the question. "We don't have to talk if you don't want to," Mac states. "Wait, I didn't mean that in a bad way! I just meant that your throat's probably sore, and –"

Dennis nods and gives a thumbs up.

"Wanna watch TV?"

He points over at the box television behind Dennis. Dennis frowns and wants to just sit here and converse with Mac, but he follows Mac to the couch anyway.

It's nothing like home until, suddenly, it is.

They're watching Maury, a show that normally excites Dennis and makes him hot and argumentative as shit, but Dennis isn't feeling it today. Instead, he lets his eyes droop closed because, even if Mac isn't touching him, there's that same sense of security and closeness he misses desperately. He isn't sure how long he's been dozing off when Mac gently shakes his shoulder.

"Lay down, Den," Mac whispers, guiding Dennis into his lap. Mac uses his own jacket as a blanket and drapes it over Dennis. He rubs Dennis' back in a slow, steady pattern that Dennis is too sluggish to identify.

Dennis drifts into oblivion, and, this time, he isn't afraid.


	7. Chapter Seven

**4:50 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Mac wakes up on the sixth day without Dennis nursing a hangover from Hell.

He believes, at least for a sec anyway, that he died somewhere during his tequila binge last night, but he's still here and still breathing. He isn't sure whether to be thankful or not because his head hurts very badly. He whines into the pillows, grumbling as his stomach rebels and lurches. Mac doesn't even feel like sprinting to the bathroom, and, yeah, he swallows his puke, so what?

(It only makes him want to throw up again even more, but he's strong and tough and doesn't have a sensitive tummy whatsoever.)

The empty bottle in the middle of the bed, it pokes Mac's bare back while he maintains his grip on Dennis' incredibly soft sweater. It's home to Mac. Home isn't this apartment or Philly or Paddy's; it's wherever he and Dennis are together. But Dennis is gone, and Mac is pretty positive he can't handle it for much longer.

It's stupid. It's so fucking stupid. This whole thing is stupid. He knows Dennis obviously needs some help, but why is Mac acting like it's the end of the world?

(Because it totally is the end of the world.)

He just wants his thoughts to shut up for a little while, hence the copious amounts of alcohol (he may or may not have started reading a dictionary a couple nights ago when he was plastered and thinking about Dennis's perfect thighs). Dennis always told him that booze lessened the bad days. Mac loves booze, so this is true, but he never realized how Dennis was so right until Dennis himself left.

Tried to kill himself.

Dennis didn't leave. He tried to kill himself.

They've berated and belittled each other since they were teenagers. Mac always thought of it as just playing around, but he wonders how long he missed the warning signs. Yeah, Dennis is always, like, sarcastic and smart ass-y, but Mac never looked deeper until the BPD diagnosis a couple years ago. Now, that plus his eating problems plus his suicide attempt equals one fucked up Dennis.

A Dennis who wanted to die.

(A Dennis who begged Mac to help him die.)

Dennis doesn't want to be here anymore, and, honestly, Mac's not sure he wants to either.

 **12:30 AM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

"How do you guys think Dennis is doing?" Mac asks the gang, or what's left of the gang.

Charlie sighs and takes another shot, grimacing at the tartness. "Why don't you just ask him? Can't you, like, call him or something?"

"Yeah," Frank says. "It's not like he's in prison."

Dee rolls her eyes. "That's almost exactly what a psych ward is like, assholes! You have no idea where you even sent Dennis."

She directs the last part at Frank, and Mac puts his head in his hands.

Great.

"What the shit are you complaining about now, Deandra?"

"What am I complaining about? What am I complaining about?!" she screeches at an inhuman pitch. "You sent me away too, Frank!"

"You set your roommate on fire!" Frank shouts. "Your brother tried to off himself. Two totally different things."

Dee scoffs. "Then why send me there in the first place?"

"Eh," Frank says with a shrug, munching on peanuts and getting the shells everywhere because he's fucking disgusting.

"Un-fucking-believable. You have no idea what's going on in that place, do you?"

Mac looks up and frowns with huge eyes. "What do you mean?"

"It's basically a torture chamber, Mac. Dennis is probably being raped in the ass or held hostage for personal gain or some shit like that."

Mac gulps.

"You're full of shit, bird," Frank says matter of factly. "I looked into the place before letting Dennis stay. He's bein' taken care of. I get updates on him all the time."

Frank gets updates? Fucking Frank gets updates on Dennis, and Mac doesn't? Mac calls everyday, sometimes two or three times, and he doesn't get shit. He doesn't even know if Dennis is fucking breathing or not.

"Why haven't you told me anything?" Mac asks Frank. "I've been asking how Dennis is for, like, over a week now."

The bastard shrugs. "You guys aren't banging, so you don't need to know."

Mac watches Charlie and Dee's eyes widen. Charlie gulps, and Dee starts wiping down the bar. They don't say a Goddamn word.

But Mac's so pissed he's seeing red and Frank's dismembered arm flopping around on the ground. "Dennis is my best friend," he says through gritted teeth.

"Charlie's his friend too," Frank reasons.

"Not like Mac, though," Charlie whispers and then shoots a glance at Mac. Mac nods because he knows Charlie isn't making fun of him or expelling his awful secret. "They're best buds."

Frank wipes his hands on his Cheesy Loop dusted pants. "Why does this matter so much to you? You're just his friend. Nothing more."

Mac doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah? Well, you're just his alcoholic, abusive not-Dad with stupid hair!" he exclaims. "Dennis is more than a best friend to me, okay? He's my brother. I deserve to know that he's more better."

(He's even much more than a brother, but Mac won't admit that now.)

It's silent for a few minutes, moments and seconds that kill Mac. Charlie has left altogether; he's probably hiding in the basement. Dee is still absentmindedly cleaning the counters, while Frank and Mac have an epic stare off.

"He's okay," Frank says quietly.

Frank doesn't say anything else, and Mac doesn't ask, even though he desperately wants to.

 **2:50 PM**  
 **On a Monday**

Mac is half asleep when there's a frantic series of knocks on the door.

(It's been two weeks since Dennis left, and it isn't getting easier.)

He groans and maneuvers himself off the couch, standing on shaky knees and running his hands through his fluffy hair. Dennis always preferred his hair messy and without product. Now, Mac just leaves his hair alone, as if it'll help Dennis at all with what he's dealing with.

Charlie barrels inside when Mac opens the door.

Shit.

Charlie's eyes are bloodshot. There's paint residue under his reddened nose.

No.

Mac can't deal with more problems right now. He's aching all over, and he just needs to sleep. Sleeping soothes the issues and secrets and makes his urge to kiss Dennis not seem so scary.

But Charlie's got tears streaming down his cheeks, and he's hiccuping wildly.

"I-I... I'm sorry..." Charlie manages to croak. He wipes the tears away with paint stained fingers. "I just... I don't wanna be alone right now..."

Mac nods. Charlie, like Dennis, has always relied on Mac for support. They're kinda like two sides of the same coin, but he'd never mention that to either of them. Charlie's been his friend since they were little kids throwing rocks at trains. Sometimes, he gets high to have fun. Usually, though, he gets high to forget. Mac guides Charlie to the couch, settling a blanket over Charlie's lap.

"Wanna talk about it?" Mac asks softly.

Charlie shakes his head so quickly it makes Mac sick to his stomach.

"Okay. I'll be right here, bud."

And, this time, Mac means it.

He's not gonna leave Charlie.

(Mac's not gonna fuck it up like he did with Dennis.)

 **9:15 PM**  
 **On a Monday**

When Charlie finally comes back around, he and Mac don't talk about it.

Mac wonders if he should be the one forcing people to talk. Charlie's got problems, real problems, but so does Dennis. Dennis' problems are so severe they pushed him to end his life. But Mac doesn't want to, like, make his friends mad at him. He wants Charlie and Dennis to be happy.

(He wants to be happy too.)

Instead, they watch wrestling and eat four slices of pepperoni pizza each. Charlie downs beer after beer until he's burping and sprawled out on the couch, his feet in Mac's lap. Mac opts for a can of Coke because he can't even imagine the taste of any booze on his tongue.

(Dennis isn't drinking anymore in the psychiatric ward.)

He wishes it were Dennis in his lap instead of Charlie. Dennis gets a little clingy sometimes, and Mac loves it. Mac is always clingy, but it's much more rare for the Dennis Reynolds to need to be touched by Mac. It happens the most during breakdowns, but, every now and then, Dennis likes to be held just to be held. He wishes he would've fucking stayed here, even after Dennis punched him. He wishes he could've prevented the scars on his arms and the withdrawals.

"Hey. Bro..." Charlie slurs, shaking Mac from his thoughts.

"Yeah, dude?"

Charlie burps for the millionth time. "If you were, like, gay or somethin' you'd tell me, right?"

Mac inhales sharply.

(Holy shit. He's so tired of this conversation.)

"I'm not gay, Charlie."

Another burp that smells like... Doritos? "But you love Dennis."

He nods. "As a brother."

"Nah," Charlie says with a loud cackle. "You're so in love with him. You want his penis in... your penis."

"That's not how it works," Mac clarifies.

Charlie sighs and wiggles his feet in Mac's lap. "Listen, bro... 'm not judgin' you here. 'm just trying t'understand."

"There's nothing to understand," Mac says simply.

Charlie ignores him, but, luckily, the topic of conversation switches from Dennis to his latest game of Nightcrawlers with Frank.

(Mac makes plans to go to St. Mary's and confess his sins once Charlie leaves.)

 **3:40 PM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

This is great. This is amazing. This is the best news Mac's ever gotten!

He can see Dennis tomorrow. He can actually fucking see Dennis for the first time in over two weeks.

(If Mac had that remote from 'Click,' he'd just fast forward through the rest of this day and get to the good part.)

Mac immediately leaves the bar and his unopened beer behind, making a beeline for the Range Rover. He's watching over her and protecting her and keeping her clean for when Dennis gets to drive her again. He doesn't speed back to apartment because the last thing he needs is to get in trouble with the law. His insides flutter, and he can't remember a time he was this excited.

It's better than any Christmas or birthday or blow job from Dennis he's ever had.

Mac smiles and listens to Rick Astley as he taps on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. He wonders if Dennis is as happy as he is. He wonders what Dennis looks like and if he's any more better. He wonders if Dennis is making progress and figuring his shit out.

He hopes he's doing okay because Mac really wants him to come home.

By the time Mac makes it to the apartment, he already knows what he's wearing tomorrow.

 **11:00 AM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

The instant Mac spies Dennis walking toward him, he squeals internally.

Like literally shrieks like a fucking girl in his head.

Dennis is here. Dennis is standing in front of him. Dennis is in his arms, solid and strong and warm and comforting. Mac swears he's never felt better in his entire life. With Dennis even in his line of sight, he knows he'll be okay. His stress and uncertainty washes away.

"You look so amazing, Den!" he exclaims happily. It's so much more than the truth. Dennis has always been skinny, but now there's more meat on his bones. His clothes actually fit wonderfully (Mac tries not to stare too long or hard at the navy green long sleeved shirt and light colored jeans). His hair is longer and curlier than usual, but it works so well for him.

(And that beard? You might as well just kill Mac now.)

But Dennis's eyes are a little glassy. There's sweat beading on his forehead. He's swaying even though he's standing perfectly still.

"You okay?" Mac questions.

Dennis nods. "Yeah. Sick," he rasps.

Mac fights the urge to hug him again. He never wants to stop hugging Dennis for as long as they both live. "Aw, I'm sorry, bro," he says softly. He wishes Dennis felt better for their visit, but he honestly is just so thrilled Dennis is here and looks way better than he could've dreamed of.

(Just imagine how amazing he'd look if he didn't have a fever... Okay, Mac's really going to Hell now.)

Dennis takes a seat, and Mac plops down across from him, not wanting Dennis to feel crowded or anything negative whatsoever. "How've you been?" Dennis asks him, letting out a bunch of harsh coughs after.

"We don't have to talk if you don't want to," Mac says, and Dennis noticeably frowns. "Wait, I didn't mean that in a bad way! I just meant that your throat's probably sore, and -"

Dennis nods and gives a thumbs up; Mac breathes out a sigh of relief.

"Wanna watch TV?" Mac asks.

Dennis follows him to the couch in the lounge-looking room. Who knows how many asses have sat on this thing, but who cares? Mac only has eyes for Dennis and his great ass. That's all. Dennis practically collapses on the plushy cushion. He's sitting close enough to Mac that he can feel the fever bleeding through his shirt.

Poor dude.

Maury goes in one of Mac's ears and right out the other. Usually, this show gets both of them going, but it doesn't today. Dennis' eyes are closed, purple bags beneath them accenting how exhausted he must be. He's breathing loudly, head dipped toward his chest.

Okay. No. Mac can't just let him get a bad crick in his neck like this.

Mac gently shakes Dennis' shoulder and smiles sadly when his eyes blearily open. "Lay down, Den," he whispers, guiding Dennis' head on to his lap. He covers him with his leather jacket and rubs his back in a comforting, soothing pattern.

 **2:30 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**

"They want to release Dennis on Tuesday," Frank tells the gang.

Mac's heart immediately starts pounding. His pulse thuds in his ears. "Really?"

He's absolutely sure this is the greatest news ever. Getting to see Dennis yesterday was a fucking sweet ass treat, but having him home is even better. Mac's so giddy he thinks he might just pass out because the room sways and tilts, and, holy shit, Dennis is coming home soon.

Frank nods. "He has to go to therapy once a week, but his doctor and nurses say he's doing much better."

"Is... Does he remember us?" Charlie asks super quietly.

Mac throws an arm around his friend's shoulders. "He definitely remembers us, dude. I know he'll be stoked to see everyone."

 **12:15 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

Pending Dennis's release, Frank agrees to let Mac handle everything with Dennis from here on out.

(He still thinks they're fucking, but Mac swiftly punched him in the mouth with his ultra powerful fist; Frank didn't say anything else about it after that.)

So, Mac meets with Dr. Nichols, Dennis' therapist. Dr. Nichols makes weeks and weeks worth of appointments for Dennis, starting with two days after Dennis is released. The doctor fills him in on meal plans and gives him a book on BPD. Mac's been reading up on BPD since Dennis's attempt, but he is always open to more information because this cannot happen again.

"Wow," Mac breathes out. "This is... a lot."

Dr. Nichols nods. "It is a lot. But Dennis is more than aware of what he's supposed to be doing, so please make sure he helps himself instead of hindering his progress."

"So he's okay, right? Like he isn't gonna kill himself in the middle of the night?"

"I would not sign off on Dennis leaving the hospital if I thought he was still a danger to himself."

Mac bites his bottom lip and nods. "I just want him to be happy," he says quietly.

Dr. Nichols smiles, and Mac pretends he doesn't see it. "Dennis wants you to be happy too, Mac."

 **7:45 PM**  
 **On a Monday**

Mac stocks the fridge and pantry with proper foods that follow Dennis' meal plans.

He dusts every inch of the apartment, cleaning diligently on his hands and knees. He washes the sheets and pillow cases on their bed, Febrezing the room of it's staleness. Mac does the dishes and pre-cooks tomorrow's dinner (spaghetti and meatballs), storing it away safely. Dr. Nichols warned him that Dennis will probably be extremely tired, so he may just sleep a lot once he gets home. He says it's normal. Mac hopes he isn't lying because Dennis sleeping a lot has never been a good thing.

Mac showers, picks out his clothes for tomorrow, and collapses on their mattress.

Tomorrow, he won't sleep alone anymore.

Tomorrow, Dennis will be here for him to hold and kiss.

(Mac knows he's going to Hell, so fuck it... for the time being; he just wants to be with Dennis.)

 **10:10 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

"Hey," Mac says softly, grabbing Dennis' hand and soothing over his knuckles with his thumb. "We're home."

Dennis yawns and stretches in the seat like the world's most adorable kitten.

(Fuck, he's so far gone, but he can't even bring himself to care right now.)

Mac rolls Dennis' suitcase behind him as they enter their apartment building. He smiles brightly when Dennis takes his hand, tangling their fingers together. This Dennis is soft and stubbly, but he must've somehow gotten a haircut because it's back to being short and only a little curly. He's wearing Mac's leather jacket (he was shivering as he signed out of the hospital, and Mac couldn't stand to watch it), and Mac swears he's never looked better.

They opt for the elevator. Dennis is sleepy, and his eyes are only half open. Mac pushes the button to their floor.

The second the door closes, Dennis' lips are on his.

Mac kisses back because, fuck everything, Dennis is the most important person in the universe.


	8. Chapter Eight

**10:10 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Today is October 21, 2014.

He attempted suicide on September 26th, was hospitalized on the 27th, and then taken to the nut house on the 29th.

Dennis finds dates interesting. He guesses he never really noticed until he had absolutely nothing to do but think and die of boredom for three weeks straight. He enjoys the significance behind each number, each day, each month, each year. There's something comforting, soothing, about knowing the exact date; for a while there, Dennis couldn't register where he was, much less be able to think coherently about the importance of what day it was.

Dr. Nichols starts every session by saying "it's fill-in-the-blank day of the week." Dennis doesn't understand why he does it at first, but he knows it makes him feel oddly better. More in control. Less like he has no idea what the fuck he's doing, which is a nice thought. So, eventually, Dennis begins keeping track of the date with the help of a calendar and a two year personal planner Martha gave him. It has fucking unicorns on it, but Dennis doesn't care.

He knows Christmas is on a Thursday this year. He knows Mac's birthday is on a Tuesday. He knows Memorial Day is on Monday, May 25, 2015. He knows Halloween is on a Friday this year and a Saturday next year because 2014 is not a leap year; 2016 is, though.

Dennis is in the passenger seat of his Range Rover. Mac is driving, humming along to Bryan Adams, eyes bright even hind his sunglasses. It's a warm autumn day, and Dennis can't help but just stare at Mac. The whole world is outside in front of him, ready for him to explore, but Dennis feels as though Mac is his entire world, his entire reason for still being here.

Eventually, the 45 minute ride home from the hospital gets to him, and he drifts off with his head on the cool window. He's more serene and at peace than he's been in his life. He figures the combination of new, much stronger meds and therapy might actually be helping him. Yeah yeah yeah. He gets it. Dennis Reynolds is now a weak man, but, honestly, who gives a fuck? He may still crave perfection and control, but those compulsions are dwindled just by being with Mac.

Dr. Nichols called Mac Dennis' "savior," if one were to look at it from a more religious standpoint.

He laughed at first, especially because he doesn't believe in God or fate or Heaven or any of that bullshit, but maybe Dr. Nichols is kind of right about Mac.

Maybe.

"Hey," Mac whispers. "We're home."

Dennis doesn't flinch when Mac grabs his hand and soothes his thumb over his knuckles. Dennis yawns and flashes a small grin. He stretches, letting his aching limbs cleanse themselves from being in a cramped car. Usually, the Range Rover is a luxurious, amphibious automobile by many standards, but Dennis can't imagine spending another second in that thing.

He zips up Mac's leather jacket, the one he gave to him when he was signing a billion release forms, and stiffly walks beside Mac on their way into the apartment building. Mac's rolling Dennis' suitcase behind him, even though Dennis is perfectly capable of doing it himself. Fuck, he missed Mac so fucking much while he was locked away in a totally different world.

Dennis doesn't even think as he entwines their fingers together, his left tangled with Mac's right. He almost expects Mac to pull away, to claim this is 'too gay' or whatever the fuck, but he doesn't. Instead, Mac grins and beams like he's a third grader who just won the national spelling bee.

And, when they're finally in the elevator, Dennis may or may not place his lips on Mac's.

Mac kisses back, and it means literally everything in the universe to Dennis.

 **10:45 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

"I missed you," Dennis whispers, his head resting comfortably on Mac's bare chest. He traces his fingers in patterns on his muscular bicep and wants desperately to fuck again, but he knows he shouldn't. He shouldn't have even done it this time. Dr. Nichols said it's important to regain confidence in his everyday home life and, specifically, that banging Mac the second they were utterly alone together probably wouldn't end well.

Dr. Nichols is right about a lot of things, most things actually, but he's not in this case. Not this time.

He doesn't want to live in shadows anymore, lurking and hiding and pretending to be someone he's not. He's fucked up his life enough as it is, and he knows what he wants. What he wants is Mac. He wants Mac and to go back to school to finally become a veterinarian. Those are his two main goals at the moment, but there are others in his personal planner as well.

"I missed you too, Den," Mac says quietly.

Dennis tries not to blush when Mac plants several kisses in his hair.

They're quiet for a few minutes. Neither of them move or speak. The only noise in the whole apartment comes from the heater that kicks on and off every now and then. Mac pulls the comforter over Dennis's shoulders, but that's it. He guesses now is as good of a time as ever to make amends. It's all a part of his rehabilitation process.

"I'm sorry, Mac. I'm really sorry for fucking with your head all these years. I'm sorry for being the world's biggest asshole. I know I should've been a better friend to you, especially since you've put up with so much shit from me," Dennis says, breathing quickly and trying not to choke on his own tongue. "I... I made a mistake that night. I just had so many negative thoughts swirling around in my head, and it... they kinda drowned the real me out. I'm sorry you had to find me like that. I'm sorry that I hurt you in a way I can never possibly imagine."

Dennis's teeth chatter, and his lips tremble as he finishes. His stomach tilts. His brain sways. He almost pushes himself away from Mac, just to give him space to register his emotions, but then he decides against it. Maybe he needs the comfort, to know that Dennis is here for him no matter what. He's never going to leave or fuck up like that again.

He doesn't even notice tears are streaming down his cheeks.

But, luckily, he doesn't really have to.

Mac wipes Dennis' tears away with his thumb.

"It's okay, Den. I forgive you. Everything's alright."

 **5:20 PM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

Dennis barely cracks open his eyes at the sound of the bedroom door opening.

The excitement of this day has all but worn off, leaving Dennis shaking and desperately in need of rest. It's so different and new, and this is the start of a new Dennis Reynolds, but it doesn't make anything go away. The symptoms of his BPD are significantly lessened now; the dull ache of depression and anxiety is always fucking there, and it hurts, if he's being honest.

"Ready for dinner?" Mac asks.

Mac's been really nice today. After they banged and caught up, Mac napped with him for a while before kissing his forehead and quietly tiptoeing to the living room. It was such a foreign comfort to be wrapped up in his arms again, all solid and warm and here. Mac must know Dennis is exhausted, though, because he only comes back in twice to check in on him.

The constant check ins are still slightly irritating, enough to make Dennis groan internally, but he doesn't display any outward signs because he's more than used to it.

Fucking Martha or Sarah or sometimes this old hag named Ruth checked in on him every twenty minutes. At least Mac's only peaking in every couple of hours.

"Can I sleep for a while?" Dennis asks quietly, face hidden beneath his comforter.

Mac pulls the blanket away. "You can rest some more after dinner. I made spaghetti and meatballs."

Dennis frowns. If there's one thing that annoys him most about this rehabilitation process it's the Goddamn motherfucking meal plans. They're making him ridiculously fat. He no longer looks himself in the mirror because he just sees muffin tops and chubby cheeks and long, pink scars on his forearms. "Do I have to?"

"Yeah, dude. C'mon. We'll eat on the couch and watch TV."

"Can we watch Predator?"

"Of course, Den. It's Predator Tuesday!"

Dennis grins. He guesses that's good enough for him to manage a plate of spaghetti.

 **11:55 PM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

Mac's kisses are slow and soft and sweet.

They're enough to make a dead man weep.

And, more importantly, they're enough to make Dennis's heart fill with warmth.

 **2:20 PM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

"You sure you wanna do this today?" Mac questions. "I can always tell the gang to stop by another time."

Dennis nods, but he doesn't answer because his mouth is all toothpaste-y and shit. He avoids looking in the mirror and focuses instead on him and Mac standing shoulder to shoulder. Mac whines because Dennis keeps elbowing him as he brushes his teeth, and Dennis chuckles because no one in the world is a cuter whiner than Mac McDonald.

"Are you sure, dude?" he asks again.

Dennis spits into the sink and wipes his mouth with a towel. "I'm sure. It'll be nice to see them. I... I don't think I've seen any of them since..."

He grimaces and shakes his head furiously, trying to ignore the flashing, repeating images of bloody water and gushing veins and razor blades. The last one is kind of tough on him, though, considering Mac's shaving. Dennis hasn't shaved in going on a month. He looks like a fucking lumberjack. He rubs his beard and wants to drown out the bad thoughts.

"Do... Do you think I could... um, y'know, shave?" Dennis asks quietly, white knuckling the sink and biting his bottom lip.

Mac stares at him, eyes wide with... some emotion Dennis can't quite identify. "Yeah," Mac says, clearing his throat. "Of course, bro."

"Really?"

Mac nods. "Dr. Nichols said he wouldn't have let you come home if he thought you were a danger to yourself," he points out. "You're not gonna do anything with this razor other than shave, right?"

"No way, Mac. I'm done carving up my beautiful skin for kicks."

Mac smiles briefly, and Dennis applies soothing shaving cream to his facial hair.

Neither of them says anything, but Mac stays the entire time.

 **3:05 PM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

"I see you still take 12 million years to get ready," Mac says.

Dennis rolls his eyes. "It takes time to look this great."

Mac kisses him softly. "I'm glad you're back."

Dennis gently rubs Mac's back as their lips collide. Dennis is breathless and dizzy and weightless. His dick hardens in his semi loose fitting jeans. Okay. They're going to need to solve this problem right now before Dennis explodes all over the place.

Mac's moaning loudly (he's always so fucking loud, and Dennis loves it) when there's a knock at the door.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," Dennis whispers, readjusting himself.

Mac reaches over and refastens the first two notches of Dennis's shirt. "We'll finish this later."

"Yes we will, baby boy," Dennis breathes out. "How's my hair?"

"Wonderful as always, Den."

Mac opens the door to their apartment, and the rest of the gang floods in. There are only five of them in the living room, but Dennis' skin crawls, and he suddenly feels much more claustrophobic than he's ever been before. Even during group therapy when twenty-something people are huddled in a close-knit circle of chairs, Dennis manages to keep his calm by fiddling with his hospital bracelet or staring out the window at the world he chose to leave behind.

His hands shake as Dee approaches him. She wastes no time hugging him, and Dennis has to admit that he missed her. Sort of. In a bird kind of way. But, no, seriously, Dee is his twin sister, and it was so strange not to have the person he shared a fucking womb and everything with not by his side. Mac's a constant in Dennis' life, but Dee's like a constant-constant, the one person in his life he firmly believes would never leave him no matter what he does.

"Holy shit!" Dee screeches. "I can actually hug you without being afraid I'll snap you in half!"

Dennis shrugs and pulls away from her grasp. "New meal plan," he says nonchalantly.

"Good for you, Den." It's incredibly sincere, which he appreciates coming from his sister.

Dennis hugs Charlie next, who smells surprisingly okay. Not great, but not awful like dog shit or bird barf or something absolutely beyond disgusting. It's more like chocolate and some kind of citrus, so, yeah, it's alright, and Dennis doesn't mind when Charlie keeps holding on to him.

"I'm happy you're alive, Dennis," Charlie whispers.

Dennis pats him on the back. "Me too, bud. I'm sorry for scaring you."

He can't help but let the embrace continue as Charlie sniffles against his chest. He hasn't been out of the hospital for all that long, but Mac's filled him in on a few things, one of which is Charlie's own declining mental state. Dennis knows his suicide attempt scared everyone, but Mac told him that it definitely terrified Charlie the most.

Eventually, Charlie shrinks away and wipes his eyes with his jacket sleeve. Dennis hands him a couple tissues.

"You look good," Frank tells him from his claimed position on the couch, already bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. "See any titties while you were locked up?"

Dennis glances over at Mac, who's rubbing the back of his neck. "Tons," Dennis replies sarcastically. He extends his hand out to Frank.

"What the shit is this?"

Dennis closes his eyes and sighs internally. "Thank you," he manages to say. "Thank you for not letting me leave the hospital."

Frank nods and takes Dennis up on the handshake. For once, he doesn't say anything gross or disgusting immediately after.

 **6:50 PM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

Dennis doesn't drink anymore.

He went through killer withdrawals while in the hospital, and he honestly doesn't think he can survive something like that again. He firmly believes it's worse than slicing up his arms. He spent days and nights shivering and sweating and shaking. He couldn't eat and lost consciousness every time he so much as blinked the wrong way.

As much as he loves booze, Dennis can live without it.

That, however, doesn't mean the temptation to crack open a brewski isn't there. No, his addiction lies in the pit of his stomach, waiting to be awakened by the monster that is alcohol. Dr. Nichols advised him that giving up drinking altogether would be the best option for him. After first, Dennis thought he was nuts, that he could handle a can or two of beer a day, but alcohol is a destructive force in his life, and he doesn't want to go down that path again.

Fucking self-awareness.

His pinches his arms hard enough to leave bruises as Frank burps and Charlie cackles and Dee downs her third shot in a row. They're drunk as shit, and it's gross. It's disgusting, and it pisses Dennis off. He counts in time with his quick pulse and taps his heel relentlessly on the hardwood floor. He doesn't want to get angry. He doesn't want to go on a rant about being a Golden God and the master of the universe and all that shit because he knows it isn't true.

Yeah, he's still amazing and cool and awesome and everything, but he is, by no means, a God.

Dennis scowls and tries to keep his breathing under control. He switches from pinching his arms to biting the skin around his fingernails because he doesn't want to hurt himself, not even a little bit. Purposeful bruising can eventually lead to purposeful cutting. Purposeful cutting can lead to him nearly bleeding out in a bathtub and letting his best friend find him unconscious.

Mac is the only person not drinking. Instead, he sits beside Dennis on the couch, being the physical buffer between him and Frank. Dee is sprawled in their chair, and Charlie is on the floor, still laughing at some stupid shit Dennis hasn't been paying attention to. He clenches his jaw. He wants to ridicule them for their outrageous behavior, but he doesn't.

He doesn't because Mac is talking to him about his newest Project Badass video. He doesn't because Mac is holding his hand beneath a blanket he settled over Dennis' lap hours ago. He doesn't because Mac's eyes are golden and sincere, and it makes all the difference.

 **3:20 AM**  
 **On a Thursday**

"What're you doin' up?" Dee slurs.

Dennis nearly jumps out of his Goddamn skin as he quietly clicks the bedroom door closed. "Jesus Christ," he mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and running a hand through his tousled hair. "I'm just getting a glass of water."

He stumbles over to the sink, narrowly avoiding accidentally stepping on Charlie's arm. He grabs a glass, drops in ice cubes, and pours in the water, listening to the liquid crackle due to the coldness of the ice. The water is soothing as it streams down his dry throat. Mac put his personal favorite flavor of Gatorade (blue) on Dennis' bedside table, but Gatorade tastes funny to him when it's warm, and he craved water like an ultra thirsty camel, so here he is.

Dee takes a seat at the tiny kitchen table, staring at him with drunken, hazy eyes. "You're wearing Mac's shirt," she points out.

Dennis' eyebrows furrow, and he glances down. She's right. He's adorned in Mac's RIOT t-shirt. "I know," he says quietly, taking another sip of water.

"You know I know, right?"

Dennis shrugs. "It wasn't a secret."

"Pssh. Try telling that to Mac."

"Things are gonna be weird for a little while," Dennis informs. "But I don't want to push Mac too hard about this."

"About him being gay? About you admitting you're gay?"

Dennis sighs. "I... I like to define myself as bisexual because I still like women. I find them very attractive, both physically and sexually," he admits. "But I like Mac, Dee. I really really like Mac, and I don't want to scare him away."

"He won't talk about it," Dee says.

"Not yet. But I'm gonna talk to him... I don't wanna hide anymore. I just finally want to be myself."

Dee smiles. It's a real, genuine, sincere smile, one that spreads from ear to ear. "You deserve to be happy, Dennis. You both do."

"Listen, I know I've been a really shitty brother, but I just want to say –"

His sister stops him. "I know. Me too."

Dennis grins briefly before hugging Dee for the first time in his life without being prompted or trying to manipulate her.

 **9:15 AM**  
 **On a Thursday**

Today is October 23, 2014.

He's been out of the hospital for two days, and it's been a whirlwind emotionally. He's reconciled with the gang and is trying to form healthier habits and relationships. Charlie is still terrified he's going to do something stupid again, so Dennis tries very hard to stay close and keep Charlie busy, whether it's watching cartoons or reading out loud to him, which is nice because Dennis likes the sound of his own voice, and it can possibly help with Charlie's illiteracy.

Or maybe he isn't illiterate after all. Maybe he's dyslexic or something? He doesn't know for sure, but he's done making fun of Charlie for it. Dennis doesn't want to be like his old self, not even in the slightest. He wants to right his wrongs and be there for his friends.

Not everything is about him; Dr. Nichols used to say that all the time, especially when Dennis's vanity and narcissism was particularly bad on some days.

Today is his first appointment with Dr. Nichols, and he's up and dressed early. He's tugging on his socks when Mac enters the room.

"Wanna get some breakfast? I'm starving."

He glances at his watch. There's a little less than two hours until his session. "Sure. That sounds good."

Dennis pulls on a jacket, and Mac kisses him gently before they head outside into the world.


	9. Chapter Nine

**1992**

Dennis meets Mac under the bleachers everyday. It's their morning, lunch, and after school tradition. Ever since Mac became the only drug dealer on campus, he sees Dennis a lot more often than before. He and Dennis are in the same grade and have had a few classes together, but Dennis doesn't talk much, and Mac gets kicked out too frequently to actually learn anything more better.

They smoke weed; sometimes, Dennis switches it up and inhales cigarette after cigarette.

(Mac doesn't really like tobacco, but he never says no when Dennis offers him one.)

He likes to think he and Dennis are close. The guy is kinda weird and snaps at random things, but there's something oddly comforting about being shoulder to shoulder with him. Dennis smells like cinnamon and Earth and weed, and Mac isn't sure he's ever smelled anything better.

Today, Dennis shivers and blows out puffs of smoke. Cigarettes. Mac could smell them long before he got to the bleachers. He sighs as he plops down on an un-icy patch of gravel, pulling an already rolled blunt and his lighter out of a Ziploc bag. Dennis's eyes are glassy, his bottom lip trembling every now and then.

Mac doesn't say anything. Instead, he waits until Dennis finishes his cigarette and offers him a hit. Dennis accepts wordlessly.

He honestly has no idea if anything is wrong with Dennis right now or not. Dennis is so hard to read. He doesn't smile. Shit, sometimes he doesn't blink. He can stare off into the distance and stay perfectly still for hours. It's creepy as fuck. But Mac enjoys hanging out with him regardless. It's better than going home to his parents.

Mac watches snowflakes fall on the football field.

(He also carefully watches Dennis out of the corner of his eye.)

Dennis takes another hit and tugs his black beanie completely over his ears, hiding the visibility of his perfect curls. He stuffs his ungloved hands deep in his coat pocket. Mac watches his draw his knees to his chest. Mac listens to him sniffle.

"Everything alright, dude?" he asks quietly.

This can go one of two ways. The first way is that Dennis flips out and yells at him. The second way is Dennis reluctantly tells him what's wrong and then bolts as soon as the words leave his mouth.

(Mac really hopes it's the second way today.)

Dennis shrugs. "Just really tired."

Mac inhales the last hit of the blunt before he snuffs it out on the gravel. "Not sleeping again?" He asks this very carefully because Dennis is mad sensitive when it comes to anything. Dennis once revealed to Mac that he hadn't slept in five days and thought he was losing his mind.

"Something like that."

Mac frowns. "You wanna talk about it?"

Dennis shrugs and then shakes his head. "It's... It's not important," he whispers. "Wanna come back to my place? It's cold as shit out here."

Mac's baked and forgets everything about that day other than Dennis falling asleep on his shoulder.

(He holds on to that memory forever.)

 **1994**

The summer after they graduate flashes before Mac's eyes. Mac and Dennis spend everyday together. They smoke, they drink, they watch movies, and, usually, they fall asleep curled together in Dennis's bed.

(It's Mac's favorite part of the summer.)

Eventually, though, he finds himself watching Dennis neatly pack suitcases and duffle bags. He's leaving. He's going to Penn in three short days. Mac wishes he were smart like Dennis so he could tag along, but there's no way in shit that could ever happen for him. He's white trash and stupid and can't figure anything out for himself.

Mac folds his hands behind his head and stares up at Dennis's ceiling.

Fuck. This sucks so bad.

"Alright, I'm done," Dennis says quietly, flopping down on the mattress beside Mac.

(He's so close Mac can practically inhale the scent of his aftershave.)

"D'you think we'll still be friends once you leave?" Mac asks. "Like when you're a big college hotshot, will you still visit?"

("Will you remember me?" is what he wants to ask.)

Mac inhales deeply when Dennis tangles their fingers together. No. No no no. These thoughts have to stop. He should not feel this way about Dennis Reynolds. He shouldn't feel this way about a dude period.

He's going to Hell, but he doesn't pull away from the touch.

"Dude, I'll be home on breaks and holidays. Some weekends too I'm sure," Dennis says. "And you can come visit me too."

Mac's eyes widen. "Really?"

(He isn't good enough for Dennis and certainly isn't good enough for Penn.)

"Yeah, dumbass. I'm not just gonna disappear on you."

It's so sincere and nice sounding that Mac is convinced that this isn't actually Dennis he's talking to for a minute there. He thinks he's in some fucked up dream where he holds hands with his best friend and falls asleep with him every night.

Mac doesn't say anything else because he knows he'd fuck up the moment. Instead, he rubs Dennis' knuckles with his thumb and continues staring at the ceiling.

 **1996**

Dennis is a junior at Penn when Mac gets the call that Dennis is in the hospital.

Mac's insides clench with uncertainty and absolute fear as a nurse lady tells him he's listed as Dennis's emergency contact.

(Not his parents. Not his twin sister. Mac.)

Mac immediately rushes out of his mom's house, stealing her car keys because he knows she won't notice anyway. He makes the four hour drive in three. It would've been faster had he not gotten stuck in rush hour traffic on his way out of Philly.

Dennis. He needs to get to Dennis.

Which is exactly what he hurriedly tells a random nurse lady in the ER. She checks his ID and then shuttles him to a room far down the hall.

Dennis hasn't been eating. Dennis had his stomach pumped because he consumed too much alcohol (whatever that means). Dennis is hooked up to wire things and is pale and has dark purple bruises beneath his baby blue eyes.

Mac collapses in the chair next to Dennis' bedside. He prays and prays and prays until he can't pray anymore.

He knows college is rough on Dennis. When Dennis visits, he's always worn out and too skinny and doesn't say much. Mac tries to ask how he is and what's going on, but Dennis is Dennis, and Mac is just thankful he only gets punched once or twice because of his annoying-ness.

"Wanna go home," is the first thing he hears out of Dennis's mouth.

Mac sits up straighter. Dennis's voice is broken and soft and hoarse, and it makes Mac so sick to his stomach.

"Wanna go home with you," Dennis whispers.

(Mac pretends he doesn't fall apart at Dennis's admission.)

 **1998**

"Can we just stay in?" Dennis asks. "I don't feel like going out tonight."

Mac furrows his eyebrows. "Bro, you literally just graduated from a super smart school, like, six hours ago. Let's celebrate!"

Dennis shrugs from his spot on Mac's mom's couch. "We can celebrate here."

With a dramatic sigh, Mac plops next to Dennis. He starts twiddling his thumbs. He wants to go to Applebee's. He wants to get wasted with Dennis until they're singing Rick Astley shit at the top of their lungs together in the Range Rover. He wants Dennis to know that he's proud of him and that he deserves a night out.

"I was thinking," Dennis says, shaking Mac from his trance. "Maybe we should get an apartment together here in Philly?"

"Seriously?"

(It's the best news Mac's gotten in forever.)

Dennis nods. "Yeah. It makes sense. We're with each other all the time anyway. Might as well save some cash. And you can finally get out of this shithole."

"Are you just busting by balls? Cuz that's really insensitive if you are..."

Dennis grins (and Mac melts). "Ooh, 'insensitive.' That's a new Mac word," he says teasingly. "I'm being 100 percent for real, Mac. Let's move in together."

(Mac could kiss him, but he so doesn't.)

 **2000**

They buy a bar and name it Paddy's Pub.

Well, Dennis mostly buys the bar because Mac and Charlie are fucking broke. But they help clean and decorate and set everything up while Dennis makes a business plan and avoids the dirty work.

It's August 3rd, the day before their grand opening. Charlie drank straight paint and is passed the shit out on the hardwood floor Mac just swept. Dennis is in the back office on the phone. Mac keeps stocking behind the bar. He really likes listening to Dennis talk, so he has to find a way to keep himself busy without it being weird.

Ever since they moved in together a couple years ago, Mac finds it nearly impossible to be away from Dennis. When they're apart, Mac has Dennis check in, and Mac checks in with Dennis so he doesn't bitch about it being unfair. But Mac can't help that he worries because sometimes Dennis doesn't take care of himself.

Like now.

He's been so preoccupied with Paddy's that he's barely been eating or sleeping. He's drinking and smoking way too fucking much, and it's not healthy.

(The only time Dennis actually sleeps is when Mac happens to coax him into bed; he doesn't move the whole night in fear of waking his friend.)

Mac has hope that Dennis will calm down a bit when the bar officially opens.

Well, he kinda has hope. Dennis is so high strung and tense that he won't be surprised if this behavior continues.

(But Mac will always be there to peel Dennis's apples and hold Dennis's hand, no questions asked.)

 **2002**

"Eat the Goddamn pizza!" Mac shouts with so much force he's sure he could knock down the Eiffel Tower if he were there. He scowls when Dennis stares blankly at him. "Dennis, I swear to God... I will shove that slice down your throat if you don't take a bite right now."

But Dennis just continues staring at him with zero emotion.

It's one of those days where Mac wants to punch the daylight out of Dennis. It's barely noon, and Dennis is delirious from not eating, and Mac's at his wit's end. He swears he's turning into the Incredible Hulk with each passing second because his friend just looks so fucking lost and boney.

This is hard. It's so hard. He hates watching Dennis destroy himself little by little everyday. He hates that he has to be a dick and force feed him. He hates that he always has to be the bad guy because Dennis is too stupid to properly take care of him.

It's Mac's job to take care of Dennis. He knows that now.

"Dude," Mac says much softer this time as he sits beside Dennis. "You need to eat. You're gonna get sick or pass out again."

Nothing.

"What do you want to eat? I'll get you anything you want, Den. Just name it."

Dennis blinks. "An apple?"

He says this like it's a question.

Mac sighs. "That's all you want?"

Dennis nods, and he looks so cute and pathetic, and Mac can never say no to him.

"Okay. One peeled apple coming up."

Mac gets to his feet. He's halfway to the kitchen when he hears Dennis' small voice.

"Can I have two apples? With peanut butter?"

He nods and smiles too brightly. "Sure, dude."

 **2004**

It's flu season.

Dee's the first to go down because she's a bird, and bird's fucking suck. Charlie gets it next because, well, Mac doesn't know why or how. Of course, this leads to Frank catching it almost immediately. It's super fucking gross because Dee can't go three seconds without puking, and Charlie coughs all over anything and everything, and Frank doesn't pick up his Goddamn tissues.

He's considering locking him and Dennis in bubble until this is over.

Of course, it wouldn't matter now because Mac's throat is on fire, and he can't breathe out his nose.

Great. Fucking fantastic.

Dennis is in the shower, and Mac wants so badly to get up and see him. They fell asleep in Dennis' bed together last night while watching Predator; it's not like Mac hasn't seen him, but still... He just really likes being close to Dennis. On the nights he sleeps in his own room, it's cold and weird and lonely, and he usually finds an excuse to lay with Dennis instead.

(The whole "there's a fucking huge ass spider in my room, dude," thing is old as shit, but Dennis just shrugs and curls into a ball as Mac passes out next to him.)

Mac coughs up mucus and shivers beneath the thick comforter while he listens to the shower water turn off. Dennis comes out of the steamy bathroom immediately with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

(Fuuuuck... Mac tries hard to hide how aroused he is right now.)

"You alright, Mac?" Dennis questions, eyebrows furrowed and lips turned into a frown.

Mac shakes his head. "Think I caught the flu, bro."

Now's usually the part where Dennis screams at him for bringing germs into the apartment. Dennis gets mad at strange things all the time, so this lecture definitely wouldn't surprise him in the slightest.

But he doesn't do that. Instead, this time, he walks slowly to where Mac's laying.

Mac dies on the inside when Dennis' wet fingers caress his cheek.

"You're definitely running a fever. I'm gonna go get you some meds, okay?"

"No," Mac coughs, grabbing Dennis' hand (he's needy as shit when he's sick, okay?). "Don't go."

Mac totally stops breathing when Dennis' lips softly grace his forehead.

"I'll be right back, baby boy."

 **2006**

"Hey," Mac coos. "Hey hey hey... Shh... Shh... You're alright, Den."

Mac places Dennis' left hand over Mac's heart. Mac counts with the rhythm of his heartbeat. No matter how much he likes the feeling of Dennis touching him in whatever way possible, this is never fun. Breakdowns suck, and Dennis floats away and cries, sometimes screaming or burning himself with a lighter or throwing up for seemingly hours on end.

This snap earned Mac a busted lip.

Dennis had locked himself in the bathroom. Mac kicked down the door with his amazing strength to find his best friend slicing up his thigh with a razor.

It's the scariest thing Mac's ever seen in the twenty-whatever years he's been alive.

"Come back to me, Dennis," Mac pleads. "You gotta come back to me."

Mac wraps his arms around Dennis and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, even though Dennis' thigh is bleeding, and Mac's pretty sure he's dying because Dennis is shirtless, and his nips are hard. A broken sob echoes throughout the room; it's enough to make tears swell in Mac's eyes.

He isn't sure how long they sit on the floor of Dennis's bedroom tangled together. All Mac knows is that Dennis has finally cried himself to sleep, snotty face pressed against Mac's stomach. All Mac knows is that these episodes are happening more and more often.

And, yeah, he sits on the ground for the rest of the night, holding Dennis and protecting him from harm.

It's just what Mac does. Always will do.

 **2008**

"Guys! Open up! I have huuuuuge news!" Charlie screams from the hallway.

Mac pulls away from Dennis, whose eyes are glassy; a small smile is still etched on his face, and Mac grins at that. "What the hell does he want?"

Dennis shrugs and then tugs Mac closer once more. "Who cares?"

Just like that, Dennis' tongue is back in Mac's mouth, and Mac's pretty positive it's the best feeling in the universe.

(But he's going to confess his sins tonight for sure, probably once Dennis falls asleep.)

"Pleeeeease, dudes! Let me in!"

Mac's fingers tremble a little as he unbuttons Dennis' shirt.

This is bad.

This is a sin.

This is Mac's downfall.

But, right now, with Dennis' lips on his, he really does not give a shit.

 **2010**

"You gotta get out of bed, Den," Mac whispers softly. He gently rubs Dennis' back, trying his best to smooth out the knots and put his best friend together again.

It's been one of those long, miserably cold weeks where Mac listens to Dennis rant and ramble for an eternity. He watches Dennis pace the living room, the bedroom, and the bathroom, muttering and making crazy hand gestures that make no sense to Mac. It ends with Dennis burning himself with Mac's lighter, and Mac trying his best not to lose his shit.

But Dennis hasn't moved from his curled up position on the mattress in three days. Mac has had to hand feed him for Christ's sake. He's called into Paddy's and said that Dennis is really sick, which Mac knows isn't too far away from the truth. Dennis really is sick, but it isn't physical. They've reached the point where Mac knows Dennis needs help, but he's way too fucking terrified to say it out loud, fearful of Dennis's reaction and the admission itself.

"Please, Dennis," Mac pleads. "Just... Just come out to the living room with me, okay? We don't have to leave the apartment, but you need to get outta bed."

Dennis rolls to where he's facing Mac. It's a huge fucking feat for him. "'m cold, Mac..." Dennis grates out, voice shot from not speaking in three days. "Why's it so cold in here?"

Mac rubs his hands up and down Dennis' boney shoulders and arms, trying to get some warmth back into his body. "I dunno, bud. Want me to get another blanket?"

Dennis shakes his head. "No..." he whispers. "Will... Could you hold me... please?"

(Mac straight up dies on the inside; he wordlessly wraps his strong arms around his best friend.)

 **2012**

"Get the fuck out of here!" Dennis screams, shoving Mac hard in the chest. "Get out!"

If he had a dime for every fucking time Dennis has yelled at the top of his lungs for Mac to disappear, he'd be one rich ass motherfucker.

"You know I'm not going anywhere, bro," Mac counters calmly. He lets Dennis slam his weak fists over and over against his skin. The poor dude doesn't have any energy left. He's been running on fumes from six days with little to no sleep and not eating anything more than a single peeled apple a day. Shit, at this point, Mac is desperate for Dennis to get some rest because he's seriously been a fucking nightmare.

Dennis stops hitting and sinks down to the kitchen floor. "Why d'you even like me, M-Mac?" he asks. "Why?"

Mac sits down beside him, mimicking Dennis and pulling his knees to his chest. Dennis looks tiny when he curls in on himself like this, even when he's just raged for hours on end. "You're my best friend, dude."

"But why?"

(Dennis's teary blue eyes shine in the late June evening light.)

"You're always there for me. You're cool and funny and smart, and you come up with the best ideas," Mac says quietly.

He wants Dennis to smile. He misses Dennis's smile.

"I... I-I don't feel well, Mac..." he whispers.

Mac nods, biting his lower lip. "I know, Den. Why don't we go lay down?"

Dennis nods and lets Mac do the rest of the work.

 **11:45 AM**  
 **On a Thursday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Mac skims through an issue of Sports Illustrated from 2009 while Dennis is in therapy. He isn't big into sports in general, even though he's constantly working out, but it's all this office really has that kinda interests him. So, he stares at giant, huge muscles and broad shoulders and dudes in football uniforms and tries to ignore the stiffy that swells in his pants when he thinks of Dennis in that football uniform from when they tried out for the Philly Eagles.

Fuuuuck.

He squirms uncomfortably in a too squishy chair, tossing the magazine aside and settling for tapping his fingers on the armrests. Mac sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Dennis only has a few more minutes left of therapy, and that's way too long in Mac's opinion, especially with this "new" version of his best friend (blood brother... maybe more...).

The new Dennis doesn't drink or rage or constantly poke fun at people, dissecting flaws in order to manipulate them (there's that dictionary working for him again; score!). The new Dennis isn't too happy about eating, but he does it anyway because he knows he has to. The new Dennis smiles a lot more, which is probably what Mac likes most.

It's been two days since Dennis's release, so Mac is definitely still getting used to life with a calmer, softer Dennis. Usually, they can't go two minutes without bickering and arguing and threatening to knock each other the fuck out. It's no secret that Mac gets very hot very fast, but, without Dennis always riling him up, he finds no reason to get upset.

(Except when the burger store they went to earlier ran out of chips; he was supper pissed then.)

The door to the therapy room place opens up, and Dennis walks out with Dr. Nichols following closely behind him. Mac jumps from his chair and almost hugs Dennis, but he stops himself. Instead, he grins at Dennis and shakes hands with Dr. Nichols.

"How was it?" Mac asks as they step inside the elevator down the hall.

(They've been holding hands since they left the office.)

Dennis nods and actually smiles. "It was good," he says. "But it kinda sucked too."

Mac frowns. "Why?"

Dennis kisses him sweetly and leaves Mac breathless. "Because I missed you."

And what does Mac do?

He pushes Dennis away, of course.

"Stop," Mac tells him. "Don't come any closer... I-I... We can't do this, Dennis."

"What? Why not?"

"Cuz I'm not gay, dude! I don't know if you are, but I'm totally not!"

Dennis sighs and steps closer. "Mac..."

"No, dude. No fucking way."

"It's time, Mac," Dennis says.

And it infuriates Mac. He swears he clenches his jaw hard enough to break it.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"We've been doing the same old song and dance for twenty years, man," Dennis tells him calmly, the calmest Mac thinks he's ever seen Dennis. "I... I have feelings for you, okay? Romantic feelings. I've had them for who knows how long. But you can't keep hiding who you are, Mac. It'll eat you up inside."

The elevator dings.

Mac's heart shatters into a million pieces.

Did Dennis just admit he likes Mac?

Mac wants to push Dennis against the wall and make out with him so hard it'll make the whole world spin.

But he doesn't. He can't.

He fucking can't.

Mac bolts out of the elevator and doesn't look back.


	10. Chapter Ten

**12:00 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

He's okay.

He's okay he's okay he's okay he's okay.

Idiot. Fucking idiot. Why in the shit is he such a fucking idiot?

Dennis breathes in and out.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In. In in in in in...

He chokes and coughs and splutters as he makes his way into the sunlight.

Dumbass. Why did he have to run a good thing? Why did he sabotage himself? Why did he have to pressure Mac to put a label on what they are? Is it unfair for Dennis to want to know? To understand finally who Mac is and what this - their relationship - means?

He shouldn't have opened his mouth.

No. Dr. Nichols says it's important for Dennis to open up, to communicate, to fully express his feelings even if it sometimes hurts him personally. Yes, he has to take into account how other people, mostly the gang, respond and their perspectives. Yes, he has to respect opinions and boundaries. But Dennis just wants Mac. All of Mac.

He doesn't know if he did the right thing. He's crawling out of his skin, desperately wanting to march back into the hospital to Dr. Nichols' office, but he literally left moments ago. He probably already has another patient anyway. But Mac fucking fled once Dennis kissed him in that elevator. He knows exactly why too, but it's hard to admit. It's hard to admit to being different, to defy the expectations society has placed on gender roles and sexuality.

Mac has never wanted to talk about it, though. For a long fucking time, neither did Dennis. They went through the motions, banging and getting handsy when wasted (or sober) and pretending it never happened, that they ever shared each other in the first place.

Dennis pulls at his hair over and over again before trying to smooth it back down. He has no idea where Mac went and knows he isn't in the right state to chase after him. His vision blurs as he shakily unlocks the Range Rover, plopping in the driver's seat and immediately placing his head on the steering wheel.

Breathe. He has to breathe.

Why? Why did he have to say it was time?

Time for what? For Mac to come out of the closet?

Dennis face palms himself through heavy, shallow breaths.

Fuck. He wasn't ready. It took Dennis weeks of intense therapy and alcohol withdrawal and a shit ton of meds before he really sank his teeth into his own sexuality. Labeling it is fucking hard because his heart (yes, he's a weak man) belongs to Mac. He still likes women, imagines he would still like having sex with women, but Mac is...

Dennis shakes his head and tightens his fingers around the steering wheel; his knuckles turn ghost white.

Mistake. He just made a huge fucking mistake, and he can't take it back. He doesn't know where Mac is. Doesn't know if Mac will even come back to the apartment. The old Dennis would tear apart every inch of Philadelphia, ripping the city to shreds at the seams. The old Dennis would plan and scheme and manipulate Mac into coming home.

The new Dennis isn't going to do that. Will not do that.

Mac deserves better.

It takes every ounce of Dennis' strength to stay put and focus on regulating his emotions.

Every. Single. Ounce.

 **9:40 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**

Okay.

Mac isn't home yet.

Dennis clenches his hands together.

It's been over nine hours since Dennis fucked up. In the span of nine long, agonizing hours, Dennis has left 47 voicemails. He's sent upwards of 300 texts. He fucking logs into Facebook and MySpace, for Christ's sake, determined to get ahold of Mac one way or another.

He doesn't have to come home. He doesn't.

Dennis just wants to know he's okay. That he didn't get super plastered and drowned in a puddle of his own vomit. Honestly, that sounds more like old Dennis than Mac, but it could still happen. Dennis waits and waits and waits, pacing back and forth from their bedroom to the kitchen so many times that his feet beg for him to sit.

He bites his fingernails until they're nothing but charred nubs. All ten of his digits are bleeding. He doesn't bother doctoring them up. He knows even this simple nervous habit can lead him winding down a dark and dangerous road filled with trudged up nightmares. He knows he can lose everything just by biting his fucking fingernails like a psycho.

Not to mention that he's super fucking close to punching the Goddamn wall. He's done that so many times before, broke his hand more times than he remembers, and Mac had to carry him from the apartment to the Rover to the emergency room because he hadn't eaten or slept. But Dennis needs this. He needs to feel the plaster crumble beneath his bones, to shred open the skin.

He wants to bleed.

It's not like he wants to kill himself. No. He doesn't want that. It's just that self-harm has always been there for him. Dr. Nichols told him that. Where his parents and his sister and sometimes even Mac failed him, cutting or burning or bruising made him feel whole again. Made him feel something. But now he's feeling too much. He's being fucking swallowed, is drowning in his own mind, and he needs a way out. He needs to stop.

Breathe.

He tries to take a deep breath. Can't. Sinks to the floor, back against the fridge. Draws knees to chest and counts.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen...

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

Seventeen...

Dennis pukes all over his jeans on eighteen.

It burns his throat and stomach and head in the most beautiful of ways.

 **11:05 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**

Eventually, Dennis levels out his emotions.

He pinches his arms over and over and over again. It stings. But it makes him feel not so awful anymore. Like he can breathe on his own.

Dennis knows he shouldn't have done it. He knows. He really really understands and gets it. He'll tell Dr. Nichols at his appointment next Thursday. He doesn't want to be a screw up, but that's just who he is. He couldn't live another Goddamn minute on this Earth if he didn't do something. He had to. He ran out of options.

He still hasn't heard anything from Mac, and he kind of doubts he will at all tonight.

It hurts so much more than the bruises on his arms or the slashes up his wrist.

But he has to take control of the situation. He starts by showering because, fuck, does he smell ripe. The water scalds and burns his skin, almost like the hum of a lighter to his flesh. He stands under the intense spray longer than he means to. He dries himself off without looking in the mirror. He throws on an oversized long sleeved shirt, carefully making sure his arms are completely covered, and stupid old plaid pajama pants and cleans up the kitchen.

None of it makes him feel any better, but he's yawning by the time it's done.

Dennis curls into a ball on the couch, facing away from the door. Even if Mac comes home, Dennis is sure Mac won't want to talk to, much less look at, him period. He hides his face in the cushion, placing his right hand over his heart and counting to the rhythm of the beat beneath his skin.

 **3:20 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

"D-Dee?"

"Jesus, it's three in the Goddamn morning! This better be important!"

Dennis flinches at her shrill abrasiveness, but he has to be rational. He's hurting and upset, but it is very early in the morning. It's not exactly like Dee wanted to be woken up right now. "I... Um, I-I... Could you come over?" he barely manages to squeeze out of his aching lungs. "Please?"

Everything hurts. It fucking hurts.

"I'll be there in fifteen."

 **3:35 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

"Dennis?"

He winces when the living room light flickers on, shielding his eyes with his palm. It's so fucking cold here without Mac.

Where is Mac?

Why can't he at least tell Dennis he's okay?

"Shit," he hears someone whisper.

There's rummaging around coming from... well, everywhere... but he can't keep track of it. Loses himself in the meaningless sounds of nothingness. It's black and cold and doesn't have a pulse. It's deep and lost and fragile, and it's him. He's nothing, and he's nowhere, and he really really really fucking needs Mac.

Please. He needs help.

He's off floating around in deafening space when there's something cold plopped on his forehead. It sends an electric voltage through his body like a zap of lightning.

"I'm right here, Dennis," he hears.

Dennis can feel his eyebrows and lips morph into a frown. A real frown. Not a fake one.

"Mac?"

"No. It's Dee."

The floodgate shatters with a hurricane of tears, and Dennis sobs into the open, crackling air.

 **5:15 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

There's some shaking and some whispering and some jostling before Dennis cracks his eyes open.

In the faint light of a still darkened morning, he sees his sister kneeling on the ground beside him. He brings his hand to his eyes and groans, sniffling and shivering and shaking harshly. He doesn't have any energy to lift his head.

"Can you sit up for a sec?" Dee asks quietly. "You need medicine and something to drink."

Dennis can't nod because it hurts too much. Instead, he mouths, "okay," and Dee gently positions him to where his back is elevated with fluffy pillows, one supporting his neck. He tucks his socked feet inside the now shifted blanket and licks his dry, cracked lips. He swallows whatever pills Dee gives him because he doubts she's choosing now to poison him for being a dick of a brother, even though this might be her best chance. She hands him a glass of ice cold apple juice, just the way he likes it, and he sips at it in case his stomach rebels.

There's a silence Dennis can't describe that washes over the room. Dee settles down at the other end of the couch. She covers her legs up with some of the blanket. Dennis lets his head lull back against the pillow. His bones are lead, and he's sore in every way imaginable.

"I fucked up," he whispers after a while. "Mac's gone."

He doesn't turn to gauge Dee's reaction.

"What do you mean?"

"I... I told him it was time for him to come out of the closet," Dennis says. "I said we'd been doing the same thing forever and that I wanted us to be ourselves, whoever the fuck we are. But he got really mad and left. I've c-called and texted, but he won't check in, and I'm fucking terrified."

Dee scoots a little closer. "Wow. I can't believe you said that to him."

"Yeah, I couldn't either. But it just fucking came out, and now I can't take it back."

"You shouldn't want to, Den. You shouldn't have to."

Dennis squirms and makes eye contact. "He won't come home."

"He will," she says. "When he's ready."

"What if he's never ready, Dee? What if I ruined everything because I couldn't keep my mouth shut?" he asks.

His sister grabs his hand and rubs her thumb over his knuckles, just like Mac always does to calm him down. "He'll come back, Dennis. I know he will."

 **8:10 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

Dennis goes two hours without making a phone call or sending a text. It helps that Dee's still here. Charlie being here helps too. He came over still in his long thermal underwear and bedraggled black t-shirt without shoes or a jacket. His face is blotchy, and he looks like he's been crying, but Dennis doesn't say anything because he isn't sure what to say. Instead, he lets Charlie settle down beside him on the couch beneath the comforter from his bed.

His head pounds relentlessly from his breakdown. He hates this part. He hates that his brain gets so fucking worked up, and then he has to deal with his body falling to pieces immediately afterword. Usually, Mac lays with him in bed. Sometimes, he rubs his back with his long, muscular fingers. Other times, he simply wraps himself around Dennis, forming a bubble between him and the world. But Mac isn't here, and Dennis knows he's so fucking helpless.

"Do you think Mac's gonna come back soon?" Charlie asks nervously while Dee takes a shower.

Mac's name being said out loud slices through Dennis's core.

He wants to shrug, but he doesn't. That would absolutely not help Charlie. "Yeah, bud. I bet he'll be back real soon."

There's an air of silence before Charlie speaks again.

"So you came out of the closet?"

"It wasn't a secret, Charlie."

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I'm proud of you, dude. For banging Mac and for getting your shit together."

Dennis's eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't let Charlie see that either. "Um, thanks, pal."

When Dee comes out of the bathroom in a pair of Dennis' sweats and an old t-shirt, Charlie asks, "Can I have some of that juice that looks like pee? What is that anyway?" He motions to the end table to Dennis' right.

"It's apple juice. You've never had apple juice?" Dennis questions.

Charlie shrugs. "Guess I never got around to it."

He sounds sad and strange when he says that, but Dennis isn't sure if he's supposed to ask or not.

Dennis passes him the glass. "Have at it, dude."

Charlie knocks back the juice with ease and grace; he smiles as he pulls it away from his lips.

"Dude, apple juice is awesome!"

Dennis smiles, genuinely smiles, for the first time since Mac bolted.

 **2:55 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

Dee leaves.

She offers to stay, but Dennis waves her off and thanks her for helping him in the middle of the night. Dee hugs him, actually fucking hugs him, and promises to be back in a few hours once she gets some errands done and possibly takes a nap.

With Dee gone, the urge to pick up his phone and dial Mac's number until his fingers bleed again is nauseating. His cell is on full volume, so he'll know when a call or text comes through. He'd even accept a Goddamn email at this point, but he isn't even sure Mac has an email address. Dennis stares at the ceiling and holds his hand over his beating heart beneath the blanket as Charlie watches The Simpsons while eating a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch.

Dennis clenches his jaw as a wave of dizzy smacks into him. He thinks of the movie Poseidon. Imagines a rogue wave slamming into his side and tipping him over, leaving his head bobbing under the ocean and destroying virtually everything. Blackness rips through his body and echoes through the apartment, and his stomach buzzes with nerves.

He bolts up. Dry heaves. Spits onto the floor when nothing real comes up.

Nothing's real. He isn't real.

Mac is gone, and he isn't coming back.

Dennis' raw fingers dig into his flesh, right where the scars on his wrists are. He huddles in on himself and lets a breaking sob escape chapped lips.

"Whoa. Holy shit. Hey hey hey. Calm down, dude."

The voice isn't real and comes from underwater.

It tries to suck him into space, a vast sea of nothingness.

There's pressure on his shoulders and arms. Doesn't know if it's real or not.

Dennis clenches a wad of his shirt, thrusting his palm to his chest to try and count the beats.

There aren't any.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**12:25 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Confessing doesn't make him feel better.

The three Hail Mary's he asked for don't make him feel any better.

Throwing jagged rocks at trains passing by certainly doesn't help like he thought it would. Mac's left arm dangles limply as he walks through the city of Philadelphia, his favorite place in the universe. He grew up here. He has memories of selling weed right on this very square of concrete. He can pinpoint moments and memories in Philly like the back of his hand, whatever that means.

Dennis says things like that, talks funny in that way. He sometimes speaks in code that Mac doesn't understand.

He bolted out on Dennis earlier. Left him stranded in an elevator right after his appointment with Dr. Nichols. But his heart was beyond weak, and he was sure he was going to collapse. Because Dennis confessed. Dennis Reynolds opened up something inside of him and was honest with both himself and Mac.

Dennis has feelings for him. Romantic feelings.

Mac's had dreams about that very instant, that admission, since he was seventeen. He remembers all the times they've spent the night together and made out and did hand stuff and slept tangled on the floor or on a couch. Remembers Dennis sharing cigarettes and Mac sharing snacks to ensure his best friend actually ate.

His best friend. Dennis is his best friend.

The thought of him being anything more is enough to make Mac stop dead in his tracks. His doubles over and pukes on a patch of grass he and Dennis once laid on one July night in 1995. Mac had just finished shooting off a fantastic fireworks display because Dennis missed 4th of July; he'd been admitted to the hospital with heat exhaustion after helping Dee move into her new apartment. Mac vowed to make it the best 4th of July in the history of 4th of Julys, and he delivered big time.

His amazingness at everything fireworks related paid off; Dennis sealed the night with a kiss.

Neither of them ever talked about it.

They never talk about it.

Mac figured there just wasn't anything to really talk about. Until Dennis said they'd been doing the "same old song and dance" for over twenty years. Until Dennis tried to kiss him in that fucking elevator. Dennis told Mac he missed him during his session, and Mac pushed him away.

Part of him is so... angry. Dennis assuming he's gay makes his eyes want to bulge out of his skull. The other part of him wonders if maybe Dennis is... right? But Dennis being right would prove Mac wrong, would prove that everything he's been fighting against revealing is the truth. The truth is meant to be set free, as Father O'Brien told him earlier, but at what cost?

Homosexuality is a sin.

Mac's mom and dad, more particularly his dad, taught him that when he was younger. His dad used to get super weird when Mac would hang out with Charlie all the time, until Luther McDonald realized that "Charlie is a massive fucking idiot." Those words, like pretty much everything his father said to him, stung and scarred him for life.

He isn't gay because he can't be gay. God didn't make him gay. God made him straight so he can bang women with big boobs and repopulate; that's the main reason for marriage, after all. But he's nearing forty, and Dennis is the only person on this planet that makes him happy. Dennis can look past this manly physique and great bod and see Mac for who Mac is.

Mac collapses on the grass he and Dennis shared almost two decades ago.

(If he tries hard enough, he can still feel the warmth of Dennis's breath on his neck, the rise and fall of Dennis's chest.)

He shoves his hands inside the lined pockets of his leather jacket and lies down, staring up at the midday sky. He can just barely hear the cars blazing by on the highway. It's just him and his thoughts.

Mac's muscles beg for him to run full blast back to Dennis. He wants to wrap Dennis up in his arms, swearing he'll never leave again. But Mac is a fuck up. He always has been. He's screwed the pooch (whatever that means, and he's pretty sure it isn't about fucking a dog) more times than he can count. He's stupid and can't do anything by himself and can't even wait until Dennis is more better to shove him away.

(Because that's what he and Dennis do. They shove each other away.)

Dennis really shocked the shit out of him. Someone out there has to understand that, usually, Dennis doesn't express emotions. Dennis is basically a robot. Mac knows his best friend has emotions, but they're pent up and usually filled with rage, and he can't control them properly. But this new and improved Dennis, the one who tried to out Mac on an elevator, is present and in the moment for the first time in his life.

Fuck. Dennis was right fucking there.

All Mac had to do was say he missed him too. All Mac had to do was kiss Dennis's perfect, soft lips.

But Mac fucked up. That's what he does.

That's the Mac McDonald guarantee.

 **6:10 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**

Afternoon turns into evening. The late October air buzzes in Mac's skull, cooling his insides. His stomach rumbles, and he's positive his brain is on fire, but he doesn't move. He doesn't leave this sacred spot from July 1995 because it's like abandoning Dennis all over again.

He hopes Dennis made it back to apartment. Or at least to Dee's or Charlie and Frank's. He hopes Dennis managed to eat something, even though his appetite is especially not there when he's upset. He hopes Dennis is holding himself together.

Because Mac isn't holding himself together. In fact, he's fucking ungluing.

He wipes his face with his sleeve. Okay, so what if he's crying? Men cry. Men cry all the time. Charlie cried when Frank accidentally spilled canned beans all over his drawing notebook. He doesn't want to think about the times Dennis has cried. So, instead, Mac just lets the tears fall. Maybe the ache in his chest will go away if he listens to his body.

But it doesn't work. Nothing Mac does works.

He sits up and tosses his jacket to the side, the fabric becoming annoying and sticking to his skin. He grips a wad of his RIOT t-shirt, the one Dennis wore to bed a couple nights ago, and tries to slow his breathing. He's done this with Dennis more times than he can count. He's gotten more smarter about how to take care of Dennis throughout the years; one of his best skills is stopping him from hyperventilating.

Shit. Is he hyperventilating right now?

Mac wants to go home. He wants to go home. He needs to go home.

The apartment is warm when Dennis is there, and he's so cold and hot and sticky and sweaty and freezing all at once.

Fuck. This fucking sucks.

Mac holds on to himself until he can breathe again.

(The whole time, he wishes it were Dennis holding him instead.)

 **11:45 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**

It's almost midnight.

Midnight means a new day. Maybe it means that Mac can forget about everything that happened and just go home.

He snorts to himself. No fucking way. Like this new Dennis will ever listen to that logic.

But he can't stay out here anymore. He can barely move his legs, and his fingers are frozen to the point that he can't feel them. He makes a fist, but it's weak and stupid, and he can't tell he even did anything unless he looks. Mac sniffles, stands, and wipes his palms on his navy pants.

He makes it back out into civilization, leaving behind July 1995 and October 2014 altogether. He wanders the streets, mind foggy and not really there. He wonders if this is what it feels like when Dennis dissociates. Because Mac is, like, disconnected from his head, and he's floating through Philly like a ghost.

Mac almost walks by Paddy's, but he decides against it. He knows Charlie and Dee and possibly Frank are working (or not working; whatever). Even though he's spent practically an eternity by himself, Mac can't picture talking to other people right now. His brain is so messed up. He desperately wants Dennis to touch him, to let him know it's alright. Mac wants to be who he is, but how can he be whoever that is when it's wrong?

Last time he checked, homosexuality is still a sin. It still gets him a one way ticket straight to the fiery pits of Hell.

Mac kicks at rocks as he walks nowhere, head down and half asleep.

 **2:15 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

Mac settles down for the night at Saint Mary's.

He knows it's bad to sleep in a church, but he doesn't have any other options. It's open 24 hours a day all year long, so Mac heads inside. He melts into a pew at the very back of the church. It's super early (or late depending on how he looks at it), but he stays close to an exit just in case.

Mac prays he wakes up with absolution before his eyes droop closed.

 **6:50 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

It's not a surprise when he's thrown out of Saint Mary's for squatting.

Father O'Brien was barely able to shoo him away before Mac zipped up his leather jacket and made a beeline for the door.

It's not even seven AM. Mac doesn't have a dollar to his name. He counted 73 cents in his pockets, but that isn't enough to buy shit. Seriously. He's pretty sure he couldn't even buy a homeless person's shit with 73 fucking cents. Mac's stomach growls, and he aches all over with such a fury that it's about to send him straight to his knees.

Mac can't go into a coffee shop. He has to always be drinking something in there to stay, and that just isn't happening unless 73 cents can morph into 20 dollars, and 20 dollars can morph into a case of beer.

He's craving beer or alcohol (any alcohol) so badly he's about to start withdrawals. He's been through that once before when he was, like, 25 or some shit, but he doesn't like the sound of it right now. Mac glances at his cell phone for the first time since he abandoned Dennis in that elevator. 108 missed calls. 71 voicemails. 397 texts.

Mac gulps.

It's 6:54.

Paddy's is seriously his only option. No one's there. He can drink for free. He can sleep a little more.

Mac tucks his phone back in his pocket and bites his lower lip when he feels it buzz.

Fuck.

 **11:05 AM**  
 **On a Friday**

The wall's staring at him.

Bitch.

Why the fuck's it looking at him?

Mac didn't do anything wrong.

He just pushed Dennis away when Dennis confessed he has romantic feelings for him.

Stupid. He's so stupid.

Mac should be home, cuddled around Dennis because Dennis loves being the little spoon.

Dennis can be Mac's little spoon til the end of eternity.

Mac throws another beer bottle at the wall, wincing as it shatters. Glass spills fucking everywhere, and Mac's eyes widen and glow. He pops open another one because he can't stand that dumb wall looking at him, and he can't stand dealing with himself.

He falls asleep on the unswept floor of Paddy's Pub, cradling a beer bottle like it's Dennis instead.

 **3:35 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

"Mac! What the shit are you doing here?" Dee screams, and Mac curls in on himself. Fuck. He hides his face in his jacket and tries hard not to hurt because that's definitely where this thing is going. He should've planned this out better, but he didn't because he's fucking stupid.

He should've left hours ago to avoid running into anyone from the gang.

Mac fucks everything up. Everything.

He burps and squints in the brightness of this dumb bar. "Go 'way," he slurs.

But Bird-Elephant-Man-Lady Dee plops down in front of him. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Dennis is scared shitless, and you're in here fucking sloshed out of your mind?"

Mac shoos her away with his hand.

It doesn't work.

"I don't wanna talk to..." He burps again. "Dennis..."

"That's not fair, and you know it, Mac."

"'s not fair? Not fair, Dee?" Mac says. "Wanna know what's not fair? Comin' home to find your best friend bleedin' out in a fucking bathtub!"

Dee sighs. "He's trying, shitface. He's trying to right his wrongs."

"Shut up, bird. You're just... You're just doin' this 'cuz..."

Dee stops him. "Because why? Because he's my brother? Fuck yes, that's why I'm doing it, Mac. But know what else? You to get your head out of your ass and come home."

"Fuck that."

It's quiet for a few moments, so much so that Mac swears he drifts back off into tension-filled silence.

"I know what Dennis told you," Dee admits.

Mac's eyes instantly widen. He gulps. "You know?"

Dee nods. "You two are morons, but you both deserve to be happy."

"I'm not gay, Dee," Mac whispers.

Tears swell up in his eyes and spill over his cheeks. He tries to hide his face in his knees like Dennis always does when he's upset, but, shit, he isn't that flexible. This has to go away. It just has to.

"It's okay if you are," Dee says.

"No!" he shouts. "I'm not... I'm not... I don't..."

He trails off when Dee puts her hand on top of his.

(Why the fuck are Dee's hands so big and boney and cold?)

Dennis. He just wants to see Dennis.

 **5:00 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

Mac's shirt and jacket are slathered in beer. His pants are stained with mud and grass. His fingertips are still numb, and he is still so fucking hungry, but there's something missing. There's a gaping hole in his chest that he's sure the entire world can see through.

It's the reason Mac goes home.

Dee drives him because he's drunk. So drunk. Too drunk for conversation.

He drifts away, his head cooled by her window. Thinks about the first time Dennis dozed off on his shoulder in 1992. They were sixteen. Thinks about Dennis graduating college and them moving in together. They were twenty-two. Thinks about leaving Dennis behind in an elevator after Dennis kinda poured his heart out. They're thirty-eight.

"Hey," he hears.

Mac grumbles when Dee starts shaking his shoulder. "Stop..." he whines.

(Dennis always calls him the King of Whining; Mac would punch anyone else to the moon for saying that.)

Dee practically has to to drag him through their building. Mac's legs aren't really working, and he can barely lift his feet. Dee steadies him by holding on to his elbow, and Mac closes his eyes because his head hurts.

She's fiddling around with the lock to the front door when Mac's eyes snap open.

"Is Dennis here?" he slurs.

"Where else would he be?" Dee asks as she swings the door open.

Mac's vision blackens the second he sees Dennis sobbing with Charlie wrapped around him.

His legs and heart give out simultaneously.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**5:00 PM**  
 **On a Friday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

He can't remember what the date is.

Dennis almost asks Charlie, but his tongue's glued to the roof of his mouth, and his chest aches with every forced breath. Forced. It's sad that one of the very crucial things a human body does to keep him alive is currently failing him. Dennis closes his eyes, clutching on to a wad of fabric as he tries his Lamaze breathing exercises; sometimes, they help.

But not this time.

No no no no no no no no.

Breathe.

He has to breathe.

But nothing makes sense anymore. Mac's gone. Dennis doesn't know the date. Charlie's crying and trying to reassure Dennis at the same time. The world is black and dark and deep and scary, and he thinks to himself over and over again that maybe he doesn't want to be a part of it anymore after all. Maybe the world doesn't need or want Dennis Reynolds.

"Dennis, please," he hears Charlie whisper. "Dude, snap out of it. It's okay. It's alright."

He wants to flinch away from the touch. Charlie's got himself securely wrapped around Dennis to the point that Charlie's nose is buried in Dennis's neck. It's too stifling. It's hot as shit, and he can't. He tries to move away from his friend, but Charlie clings mercilessly, and Dennis... Dennis can't abandon him like that again. He can't do it.

Breathe. Breathe breathe breathe.

Dennis inhales sharply, deeply, painfully as the door to the apartment creaks open.

He doesn't look up.

No. He totally doesn't see Mac fucking collapse in the doorway.

He doesn't see a single Goddamn thing, not even Charlie racing to help Dee carry Mac inside.

Dennis doesn't see because he can't. He's afraid of what he'll find.

 **5:40 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

Dennis curls into a tight ball on the couch, hiding his face in the cushion. His nose is stuffy, and he's sure his head will explode within the next five minutes, but he can't deal with consciousness anymore. He tries to tune out Dee and Charlie shuffling around, grabbing things left and right and screaming at each other when something goes wrong.

Everything is wrong, though. Everything.

He's halfway to convincing himself it's alright to drift off when a boney hand shakes his shoulder.

"Can you sit up?"

Dennis doesn't want to comply, to conform to what others ask of him, but he does it wordlessly. His stomach quivers from jagged sobbing sessions. His hands refuse to stop trembling. He wants to bundle back up beneath his comforter and sleep until the world makes sense again. Dee places the same pillow from before behind Dennis's neck; he mumbles a quiet "thank you."

The apartment is a blur. He can't see too much of it. He assumes it's because of how exhausted his beautiful eyes are from the crying. God, he's so weak now. Dennis almost misses how cold and callous and calculated the universe felt to him, like none of this meant anything at all. But that isn't real. That isn't how the universe works, even if it does sound great right about now.

"Are you alright?" Dee asks once Dennis swallows whatever pills she's given him. He shudders and squirms when Dee's massive hand reaches out to touch his forehead. He gently swats her away. The normal Dennis may've just broken her fingers if she got too close.

Dennis clears his throat. "I'm fine, Dee."

"You really don't look so hot," she points out. "Do you guys have a thermometer around here?"

'You guys.'

'You guys' as in Dennis and Mac. Mac and Dennis. Whatever way one puts their names in order, it hurts Dennis all the same. His heart flutters and then drops straight to his toes. The name makes his skin burn and organs freeze. Mac is here. He's here in this apartment, and Dennis hasn't so much as moved from his spot on the couch. He doesn't know if Mac's okay.

Dennis shrugs. "How's Mac?"

"Drunk as shit."

He scoffs. "Go figure."

"Charlie's sitting with him right now. You should rest."

Dennis nods and draws his knees to his chest. He places his head in the middle.

He wants to shatter into a million tiny pieces, but he can't.

This time, he can't slit his wrists open and hope he bleeds to death before Mac finds him. This time, he's stuck.

He can't tell if that's a good or bad thing.

Dennis runs his fingers through his hair and coughs wetly into the blanket.

He wordlessly lets himself wander into oblivion, not fighting it when Dee pulls him into her lap.

 **7:15 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

Mac is asleep in Dennis's bed.

Dennis wants to be mad, to throw a fit about the massively drunken douchebag who broke his heart occupying his very mattress, but he can't find it in himself. Dee's got him full of his meds and Tylenol PM and juice, so he doesn't feel much of anything right now. Except he does know Mac is home. Mac is finally home, and Dennis can't help but wonder if he's okay. Did Charlie take off Mac's shoes and socks before he passed out? Does Charlie know Mac can't sleep, drunk or not, unless he's barefoot?

His brain wants to go check in and make sure Mac's still breathing, but his body has other ideas. Dennis sniffles and lets his gaze revert back to the TV.

"Wanna watch cartoons?" Charlie asks. The kid's crumpled against Dennis's thigh, using him as a pillow; Dennis doesn't mind.

He yawns. "We can watch whatever you want, pal."

Charlie reaches over to grab the remote off the coffee table and settles back down.

Dee tiptoes into the living room from Dennis's (or Mac's) bedroom. "Holy shit. I've never cleaned up so much puke in my life."

"That bad?" Charlie asks.

Dee shrugs. "Yeah, but he should be okay in the morning."

It's weird. This is weird. Dennis feels like dog shit slathered all over concrete on a blistering July afternoon. Mac's drunk off his ass and throwing up everywhere. Charlie is calm and not yelling. Dee's not being a mega bitch. Dennis has no idea where Frank is, but he doesn't give a shit either. What's weird is that the gang, for once, is here. Together. Present in the moment.

Even if the moment is a pretty awful one.

Dennis isn't sure whether to be proud of this feat or worried that his suicide attempt may've broken everyone around him.

Mac would know the answer.

Yeah, Mac hurt the fuck out of Dennis when he bolted out the elevator that way, but Dennis has to be rational. He tried to out Mac right after a therapy session where, conveniently, Dr. Nichols told him that it's time to figure out what he wants. Dennis wants Mac. He's always wanted Mac; he's just been too stubborn, too stupid, and too selfish to let himself realize it.

Dennis guesses he should give Mac space, so that's what he's doing.

Distancing himself from the problem always works.

"Want me to stay?" Dee asks, collapsing at the other end of the couch. She throws her bare feet over Charlie's lap.

Dee yawns. Charlie falls asleep, drooling on Dennis's plaid pajama pants.

Dennis guesses Dee knows the answer and follows suit not long after.

 **12:10 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

Dennis maneuvers himself from underneath Charlie and Dee. His legs are completely fucking numb, he needs to take a leak, and his mouth is Sahara Desert dry. He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself as he shuffles to the sink. He doesn't bother getting a cup; he simply turns on the tap and sticks his mouth beneath it. The water soothes his sore throat, and he swears he could fall asleep standing up right there if it weren't for the painful stinging in his bladder.

Fuck.

Mac's old bathroom is strictly off limits because, guess what, there's a huge ass fucking spider in that thing, and Dennis isn't going anywhere near it.

Of course, that was months ago, but still. No fucking way.

Dennis gulps and coughs into his fist, knocking softly before pushing the door to his bedroom open.

It's pitch black and reeks of vomit.

He quietly cracks the bathroom door because it squeaks. Loudly, he may add. Mac gets up to piss at least three times a night every single night, so Dennis is more than used to hearing the shrill squeal. He tries to block out the image of Mac listening to that same long, eerie squeak before finding Dennis bleeding out in the bathtub. He sucks in a deep breath before flipping on the light.

Mac.

Holy fucking shit.

Mac is sprawled out on the bathroom floor, using Dennis's robe as a pillow. He's wearing nothing but black boxer briefs. He's snoring loudly, so loudly Dennis is sure the neighbors can hear it rattling through the vents, and he's trembling violently. There's a puddle of puke by Mac's head; residue splatters coat the wall and mirror and shit from where he missed the toilet.

Dennis drops to his knees.

His pulse thumps in his ears.

Dennis almost throws up too as he tries to shake Mac awake. But Dennis knows Mac's a notoriously heavy sleeper. It doesn't matter if he's plastered or stone cold sober. It doesn't matter if the tornado siren's going off or there's a freak hurricane sweeping Philly underwater.

"Mac," Dennis says softly, nudging his shoulder. "Mac. Maaaaaac."

His friend's eyes flutter open. They're bloodshot to shit. "G'way... Lemme sleep..."

Dennis wrings his hands together and bites his lower lip.

Breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

It's fine. Mac's here.

Mac's here.

"Uh," Dennis mumbles, clearing his throat. "Let's get you back to bed, Mac."

Mac rolls on to his side and hides his face in Dennis's robe. He looks so fucking small.

Dennis did that to him. Dennis did this. Dennis broke Mac.

He shoves those thoughts aside, though, and focuses on the task at hand.

Somehow, he manages to hoist Mac off the cold, hard tile. Somehow, he manages to wrangle Mac into bed, even though Mac fights him, and Dennis ends up whacking his elbow on the dresser. Somehow, Dennis finds the strength to wrap Mac in an old quilt he finds in his closet.

Dennis sinks down to the floor after putting Mac to bed.

He shivers in the darkness and waits until his pulse evens out along with Mac's breathing.

 **6:35 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"Dennis?"

He cracks his eyes open and tries to stretch, but his back seizes up. His brain is on fucking fire. He presses his palms to each eye and breathes deeply.

"What're you doin' on the floor, dude?" Charlie asks.

Dennis doesn't have anything left in him to answer. His strength, inner and outer, is shriveled and useless. He watches Mac's chest fall and rise from where he sleeps peacefully in their bed.

Their bed.

It used to be their bed.

Dennis guesses nothing will ever be the same.

Charlie extends his hand, slurping nonchalantly on a Capri Sun. "C'mon. Up."

He tries to roll his eyes, but he can't do that either. Dennis accepts Charlie's hand, grateful when Charlie bends down and practically scoops Dennis off the floor. The kid's short and small as shit, but he's as strong as an ox. He lets his friend guide him into the living room.

"Jesus Christ, Dennis," he hears Dee sigh. "Sit down before you collapse."

Charlie helps him get settled on the couch again. It's fine. It's great. The gang's coming together and working as a team, but Mac's still passed out in bed, and Dennis fucking found him unconscious on the bathroom floor this morning. Dennis's stomach churns and turns and flips, and fuck. Fucking motherfucker. How could he ever do this to Mac?

Dennis hides his face in his hands. Ignores it when tears slip through his fingers.

 **1992**

He hasn't slept in three days, not since his mom said that he spends too much time in bed (not for the "good reasons") and certainly not since Dee called his face fat. No. He's a fucking God, and Gods do not stand for this kind of negative, belittling attitudes from earthlings far below him. Mom doesn't know shit. Dee knows way less than shit.

Dee breathes out a puff of smoke into his darkened room. It's only a little after five PM, but it's fucking February. The only light comes from his TV. It illuminates Mac softly, formerly known as Ronnie the Rat, who is lying beside him on the mattress. They pass their third blunt back and forth between them. Mac doesn't say anything.

Mac knows about his issues with sleeping. Mac knows about his family and why Dennis prefers to get high or drunk instead of dealing with his issues. Mac knows just about everything there is to know about Dennis Reynolds, which, given, isn't a lot because Dennis doesn't even know who he is. Ninety percent of the time, he can't even feel emotions.

But he's feeling something right now.

Mac's warm and toasty. Mac's welcoming and inviting. Mac's happy and nice.

In a haze, Dennis finds himself rolling on to his side, squishing his cheek into Mac's shoulder.

If Mac ever mentions it, Dennis will blame it on the weed.

 **8:10 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"Okay, I'm taking you to the hospital."

Dennis's eyes immediately widen. He closes them again within a split second and continues to blubber like a fucking baby.

Get a grip.

Breathe.

Relax.

None of those things come easily to him, though. He's always been a high-strung, wound up person. Dennis feels hard. When those feelings get become too much or too little, Dennis breaks. Shatters like the mess of a human he is. Starts tearing down his walls or building them back up. It just depends. But, today, in the wake of finding Mac passed out on the floor, he can't stop crying. He literally can't fucking stop, and it's making him sick.

Dennis fidgets as Dee sits him up. She's in the middle of tugging a hat over his ears when the bedroom door opens.

Mac steps out, eyes bleary and hair wild.

"I got him, Dee," Mac croaks.

Dee doesn't stop getting Dennis dressed, and Dennis is powerless to it all. He just stares at Mac.

"Um, I don't think that's a good idea right now," Dee says.

"Yeah, dude. He might puke on you. He already did that to me today," Charlie points out. "Twice."

Mac takes another step forward. "Let me take care of him."

"I'm not leaving, Mac," Dee says.

"I never said you had to leave. Just... Just let me get him to relax." Mac looks at Dennis, and Dennis swears he's never seen anyone more beautiful or perfect. "You don't wanna go back to the hospital, do you, Den?"

Dennis shakes his head. He crumbles at the use of his old nickname, the one he wasn't sure he'd ever get to hear again.

 **8:35 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"I'm sorry," Mac whispers as he turns off the water. There are bubbles everywhere, and Dennis is pretty sure Mac used the last of his lavender and honey bubble bath, but that's okay. Having Mac here in front of him actually talking is so much more than worth it.

Dennis still jolts, though, when Mac helps him remove his long sleeved shirt and plaid bottoms.

"Shh... I got you..." Mac says as he helps Dennis into the bathtub.

The water instantly warms his freezing skin. Dennis sinks until all of him is hidden, until his head and neck are supported by a thick, plushy towel Mac grabbed earlier. His brain spins and swirls, and his sinuses begin to open for the first time in what seems like decades. Dennis lets his eyes droop closed. He isn't sure what to say.

He hears Mac sigh. Hears the pop of his knees as he kneels down beside the tub. "Den?"

Dennis looks at him without hesitation. "Mac?"

"I... I, um, just wanted... I'm sorry... I-I..." Mac trails off. He rubs his neck like he always does when he's nervous.

Dennis just shrugs. "It's okay, Mac. I get it. I'll back off and be more understanding."

"No, Dennis," Mac says urgently. "That's not what I meant. I'm... I'm just sorry... I'm sorry for worrying you and not checking in and running off on you like that..."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine! Nothing about this is fine!"

Mac's shouting makes Dennis's ears ache. "What do you want me to do, Mac?" Dennis asks with tears glistening in his eyes. "What do you want?"

He hears another sigh. "I dunno, man. I dunno."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**8:35 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

"I'm sorry," Mac whispers as he turns off the water. Bubbles overflow the bathtub, and, sure, he may have used almost all of Dennis's premium bubble bath, but he's just trying to make Dennis more better. Because, right now, the dude's eyes are clouded with sleepiness, and he's teetering on the edge of yet another breakdown; Mac can tell that much.

Dennis flinches when Mac helps him out of his pajamas. That's a class Old Dennis thingy. He doesn't openly like to be touched, especially when he's in strange moods like he is right now. Mac can't quite tell what he's thinking. Dennis isn't usually easy to read, but he just seems so much more distant than normal.

Mac inhales sharply when he tosses Dennis's grey long sleeved shirt aside. Bruises in all shades of purple stand out on his forearm, making the pink, angry scars look menacing (thank you, dictionary) and terrifying. He's blindingly pale, and Mac's heart seizes.

This.

He did this to Dennis.

Fuck, he's such a fucking screw up.

"Shh... I got you..." Mac whispers as he helps a horribly shaking Dennis into the bathtub. He keeps his hand on his best friend's (blood brother... someone more) burning shoulder a little longer than necessary because touching Dennis is like touching the sun.

Or God himself.

(He's going to Hell anyway; might as well do it while inflating Dennis's ego.)

Dennis sinks until most of his body is hidden beneath the soapy water. Mac supports his head with a thick, plushy towel. He bites his bottom lip when Dennis's eyes droop closed.

What is he supposed to do now?

The whole plan is to get Dennis to calm down, which seems to be working. His breathing is good, and his face is relaxed instead of stressed and pensive. But Mac knows this isn't enough. It's never been enough. Every time Dennis or Mac breaks, the other picks whoever back up. They know the drill when it comes to things like this, things this uncontrollable and scary.

He should talk to Dennis. Should explain to him why he freaked out and bolted. Why he disappeared for over a whole fucking day, and why he showed back up plastered out of his mind. He should tell Dennis he's terrified to be who he truly is because he's pretty sure he knows now.

Mac isn't sure Dennis will understand because Mac doesn't even understand it himself.

He sighs and lowers himself to the ground. His knees pop as he kneels beside the tub.

(His knees don't do that under normal circumstances; these are abnormal circumstances where Mac is tired himself and doesn't feel like showing off his awesome black belt skills.)

"Den?" Mac whispers.

His best friend looks at him immediately, and Mac's stomach drops to his toes; Dennis has really beautiful eyes. "Mac?"

Mac rubs the back of his neck, willing his insides to chill the fuck out for, like, three seconds. "I... I, um, just wanted... I'm sorry... I-I..." he trails off.

Dennis just shrugs, and, okay, that's so not what Mac is expecting. He guesses he's still on Old Dennis time, orbiting around anger and untethered rage. "It's okay, Mac," he says hoarsely. "I get it. I'll back off and be more understanding."

Fuck. Maybe Mac's really done it this time.

He tries to ignore the flaming images of Dennis mostly dead in this very tub a month ago.

Dennis almost died. He almost fucking died, and what? Mac just walked away like a pussy?

"No, Dennis," Mac says urgently. "That's not what I meant. I'm... I'm just sorry... I'm sorry for worrying you and not checking in and running off on you like that..."

His apology earns another shrug. "It's fine."

"It's not fine! Nothing about this is fine!" Mac shouts. He frowns when his yelling makes Dennis jump and fidget nervously.

"What do you want me to do, Mac?" Dennis asks with tears pooling up in his baby blues. "What do you want?"

And there it is. The million dollar question.

Mac knows what he wants. He wants to strip off his clothes and relax with Dennis. He wants Dennis to touch him. He wants the world to finally make sense again.

Instead, though, like the true dumbass he is, Mac sighs. "I dunno, man. I dunno."

 **9:00 AM**  
 **On a Saturday**

Mac tucks a mostly unconscious Dennis in while listening to Charlie and Dee organize a grocery list. He assumes it's for here because, apparently, the two of them have been spending a lot of time with Dennis since Mac went MIA. But Mac's back, and he's perfectly capable of shopping for them, thank you very much.

He doesn't feel like facing Charlie or Dee. Mostly Dee, though. This is easily one of the worst things Mac has ever done, but Charlie forgives him for everything because they've been buds since they were five. Dee is not like that. Nope, Dee is like her twin brother. She holds grudges like a motherfucker, and Mac's sure this is definitely going in her Grudge Book.

(It's a real thing; Dennis showed it to him once when they were in eleventh grade.)

Dee will probably try to eat him alive. Scold him for abandoning Dennis over and over again. He doesn't care about that. He just wants the apartment to be theirs again. Mac exhales, running his hand through Dennis's damp curls for support and reassurance. Fuck, he should've given Dennis some Tylenol; he'll get him to take it once he kicks Dee and Charlie out.

Mac really wants to lie down with Dennis and wrap him up in his arms. Really wants to do a lot of things with Dennis right now.

Is that overstepping? Is that too much?

He doesn't even know how Dennis actually feels yet.

Mac's stomach lurches when he overhears big mouth Dee making plans to come back here later.

He's too hungover for this, but he does it anyway.

Mac exits their bedroom (or is it just Dennis's bedroom now?) and quietly clicks the door shut.

"You guys don't have to do this," Mac states. "We're fine."

Dee scoffs. "You're stupid hungover right now!"

Mac scrubs a hand down his face. "Am not."

"Are too!" Dee screeches.

Mac's head rattles, and his ears buzz. "Please, Dee. Just let me look after Dennis for a while."

"No way!"

"I'm not gonna leave him again."

Dee glares at him like he's lost his damn mind. Maybe he has. Maybe he is crazy. Only a crazy person would abandon Dennis Reynolds after he confessed to having feelings for him. Only a crazy person would question everything about his entire life up until this point in time.

"Fine," Dee spits out. "But you two need to talk. Actually fucking talk. And I'm calling in a few hours to see if you two shitheads made up."

Mac nods. "Fair enough."

Dee starts gathering things up while Charlie fiddles with a loose thread on his black pajama shirt.

"You alright, dude?" Mac asks quietly. He doesn't know why he's talking on eggshells in his own apartment, but he's a little scared Dee won't leave.

Charlie shrugs and then tries his best to grin. "Yeah. I'm good."

"Where's your jacket and shoes?" Mac questions. "I'll grab 'em for you."

"Didn't wear 'em," Charlie states softly.

Mac immediately frowns and rubs his neck again. Fuck. Charlie's been slipping since Dennis almost killed himself. Usually, Charlie's whacky and funny and literally doesn't know how to shut up, but Mac takes in the tired eyes and permanent blank face, and he wraps Charlie up in his arms. His friend smells oddly like Dennis, like cinammon and Earth and fabric softener, and he's shaking all over.

"C'mon. Let's get you a coat and some shoes."

"Won't fit me."

Mac shrugs. "Who gives a shit, dude? They're for warmth, not style."

"Grab me a hoodie or something," Dee says. "It's cold as shit outside."

Mac gives her thumbs up and silently leads Charlie into the bedroom.

Dennis is fast asleep, curled on his side beneath two thick quilts. He's snoring loud enough to cause worldwide earthquakes. He looks peaceful and serene, and Mac... Mac just wants them to be okay.

He rifles through their shared closet. Charlie's small and closer to Dennis's size despite the height difference, so Mac hands him a grey coat he doubts Dennis will miss, along with old tennis shoes. Charlie slips them on as Mac fishes out a black hoodie of his with the sleeves still attached for Dee; the bird's freaking huge, so it's definitely appropriate.

Mac's tiptoeing out of the room when Dennis whimpers and yanks the blankets over his face.

Shit.

"Give this to Dee," Mac says, shoving the hoodie into Charlie's arms. "I'll see you later, bud."

He shuts the door before Charlie, or even Dee, can say anything else. He breathes in deeply and forgets to exhales. This is it. Mac carefully sits beside Dennis on the mattress, not too close and not too far away. He isn't sure how Dennis is about boundaries right now.

Dennis instantly wiggles to where his head is snuggled in Mac's lap. He whimpers again when Mac cards his fingers through his curls.

"Shh... Go back to sleep, Den..."

Dennis shivers, and Mac covers him up some more. "Don't go... Don't go..." He grips on to Mac's hand with most likely all the strength he has.

Mac leans down and kisses Dennis's forehead. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

 **2:15 PM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"Mac."

There's a hand shaking his shoulder. Mac snorts awake. "What?"

"Your phone's ringing," Dennis informs softly.

Mac frowns as he fishes his cell out of his pocket.

(He's frowning because literally no part of Dennis is touching him.)

"Hello?" he croaks.

"Jesus Christ! Took you long enough!"

Mac winces and rubs the bridge of his nose when his thumb and index finger. "Shit, Dee. Lower your Goddamn shrieks."

"Whatever. You two okay?"

"We're fine," he answers simply. "We were asleep."

He hears Dee inhale into the speaker. "Did you talk to him?"

Mac is three seconds away from snapping and exploding. Having to explain himself to Dee of all people is stupid. But he holds his tongue like an adult instead. "Not yet. We kinda passed out."

"Well, don't forget, asshole."

He nods, even though she can't see it. "I'm not gonna forget, Dee."

She hangs up, and Mac fights the urge to smash his phone into tiny bits with his muscular powers.

"Forget what?" Dennis asks, coughing into his collarbone.

Mac glances over at Dennis, who is lying on his back against three fluffy pillows. "We need to talk," he whispers.

Dennis nods, but he doesn't offer anything else. Mac sighs. He wants Dennis to talk, but Dennis kinda already has talked about his feelings and stuff, so it's not exactly fair for Mac to be silent on any of this.

Mac's fingers tremble as he twiddles his thumbs like a fucking preschooler about to get his ass whipped. This is too much. It's too much. Mac isn't cut out for this. He's supposed to be cool and calm and collected and muscular and strong, but, right now, he feels anything but those things. It's like the real Mac has been replaced with this dumb, scaredy cat of a dipshit.

"Did you mean it?" Mac asks so quietly he can barely hear himself speak. "Y'know, what you said about... h-having feelings for me?"

He braces himself for a "no." Part of him craves Dennis to drop another bomb on him. No, Dennis doesn't have feelings for Mac. No, he really really doesn't. If it's all a lie, everything goes back to normal.

Dennis nods, and Mac's heart both drops with nervousness and fills with warmth at the same time. "Every word," he whispers.

Fuck.

He smiles.

Shit. He probably shouldn't do that.

(Homosexuality is a sin. He can't be gay because God didn't make him gay.)

Blah blah blah.

He tries to shove that voice into a deep, dark corner because Dennis Reynolds is lying right beside him and repeating that he likes Mac. In a romantic way. It's the best news in the galaxy. It's something Mac's been wanting, dreaming, and wishing of since they were teenagers.

"I'm scared," Mac admits. "This... You.. It would mean I'm..."

"Gay," Dennis finishes for him. "It's okay to say it out loud. Dude, it's okay to be gay."

Mac's eyebrows furrow. "I don't think that's how it works, Den. How am I supposed to get into Heaven when I'm pounding my best friend, who just so happens to be a dude?"

"Think about it, man," Dennis starts, and Mac melts into his words, his explanations, just like always. "Why would God make people have feelings for someone of the same gender if he didn't want people to be gay?"

Mac shrugs. "Maybe we're just mistakes?"

"There's no such things as mistakes, Mac. You are who you are for a reason."

Mac nods and lies back against his own pillows. Together, they stare up at the ceiling for what seems like a century. The silence is familiar and comforting and covers Mac up like a blanket.

Fuck it.

Fuck everything.

Dennis is right.

Mac reaches for Dennis's hand.

Dennis grabs on, rubbing his thumb over Mac's knuckles.

"I have feelings for you, Den," Mac whispers. He smiles the second the words leave his lips. "Shit, that feels so amazing to say."

Dennis chuckles from beside him. He squishes his cheek into Mac's shoulder.

It's so much more than enough.

 **6:45 PM**  
 **On a Saturday**

Dennis is using him as a pillow.

It's something they've always done in the privacy of their own apartment. Mac lays on Dennis; Dennis lays on Mac. It's just the way it's always been. Mac can only hope this will never change because the closeness to Dennis makes him dizzy and fill with happiness.

They've migrated from the bed to the couch on Mac's first day out. That's it. He's alternated between rubbing Dennis's back and running his fingers through Dennis's hair. Mac heated up chicken noodle soup on the stove, pressing kisses to Dennis's forehead and lips when he wasn't busy stirring.

His first day out of the closet isn't anything like what he imagined.

It's perfect.

Anything is perfect as long as Dennis is by his side.

"How's it goin' down there, man?" Mac asks with a laugh.

(Because Dennis's face is totally pressed against his crotch.)

Dennis coughs wetly, and Mac's smile turns into a frown. "Chest hurts..."

Mac rubs his shoulder and coaxes him into a sitting position. He whines loudly when Mac stands up. "Relax, Den. I'm just getting you some more medicine."

He bites his lip until he tastes a little blood while carefully measuring a dose of NyQuil. Shit. This is always the worst part of Dennis's post-breakdown states. He usually worries and tortures himself until his immune system is useless.

"Cherry?" Dennis rasps when he notes the cup in Mac's hand.

Mac sighs but kinda wants to smile because Dennis's hair is a mess, and his shirt is hanging all the way off his left shoulder. "I know you like grape more better, but you're gonna have to suck it up til I get the chance to go shopping."

Dennis frowns and sticks his tongue out. He down the medicine, grimacing. "Asshole."

Mac sits back down on the sofa. He wraps an arm around Dennis's shoulders and pulls him close. He plants a kiss in Dennis's hair.

Dennis drifts off a few minutes later, snoring in Mac's ear and drooling on Mac's t-shirt.

 **10:30 PM**  
 **On a Saturday**

"MAC!"

He jolts, his eyes immediately doing an occular patdown even though it's dark as shit in their bedroom.

"Mac... Mac... Please... Please, Mac..." Dennis cries, thrashing around in the bed. Mac sits up, straddles Dennis's waist, and places his hands on Dennis's shoulders. Mac always does this when he has a nightmare. Always.

He wipes the fallen tears off Dennis's cheeks with his thumb. "Wake up, Den. I'm okay. I'm right here."

Dennis clenches on to a wad of Mac's shirt. His eyes pop open, but Mac can tell Dennis isn't really in there right now. He's burning with fever and coughing every few seconds, and, shit, this is all his fault. But Dennis needs him, and Mac needs to stop kicking himself over something they've (hopefully) already fixed.

"Come back to me, Den. Everything's alright."

Mac massages his chest and tries to get air to actually come out. It's like Dennis is choking or something.

Dennis takes a large, crackling breath and vomits all over himself and Mac.

Shit.

 **11:10 PM**  
 **On a Saturday**

Mac drags Dennis to the hospital.

They admit him without hesitation. The nurses stare at Dennis's scarred, bruised bare arms, and Mac wants nothing more than to punch them all in their fucking mouths for looking.

Dennis is perfect just the way he is.

But they have a hard time getting Dennis to calm down. It's not uncommon. Dennis is pretty much always a pain in the ass, but Mac has to admit it feels pretty good that Dennis won't let anyone else near him.

"Mac," he says like a petulant toddler (dictionary again; he told Dennis he's been reading the dictionary, and Dennis gave him the biggest grin Mac's ever seen). "I want Mac."

Eventually, Dennis is given some kind of painkiller that knocks him flat on his ass.

He never let's go of Mac's hand.

 **1:35 AM**  
 **On a Sunday**

Dennis has pneumonia.

Mac doesn't know what that is, but it sounds bad. Bad enough that Dennis is wearing an oxygen thingy that covers his mouth and nose. Bad enough that Mac almost Googles it, but then he gets way too shaky. Dennis always told him to never Google anything medical, not even when Mac got this funky rash on his upper arm that took two years to go away.

It's past visiting hours, but Mac threw a proper Dennis-like fit and demanded to stay. The nurses backed off, and it's been peaceful since then. Mac keeps holding Dennis's hand, kissing it every now and then.

Mac is half asleep when he feels Dennis squirm. He sits up and gives him his undivided attention. "Hey, Den."

"Hi, baby boy," he rasps.

(Mac blushes so hard at that he almost dies.)

"Feeling more better?" Mac asks.

"Chest doesn't hurt so much. Can finally breathe."

Mac smiles briefly. "Good. I'm glad your pneumonia-filled lungs can breathe again."

Dennis's eyebrows furrow. "Pneumonia?"

"Yeah, dude. But don't worry. You'll be okay in a few days."

Mac kisses the back of Dennis's hand for the millionth time in an hour. Dennis's eyes keep fluttering, and Mac can't help but think that he's the hottest person in the universe, even when he's sick and pouty.

"I love you..." Mac hears Dennis whisper.

Mac smiles. He doesn't hide it at all this time around.

"I love you too, Den."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**8:10 AM**  
 **On a Sunday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

"When can I go home?" Dennis whines.

The hospital is too fucking suffocating, extracting every tiny ounce of sanity he grouped together earlier. He can barely breathe. This place is sterile and dumb and chaotically peaceful, and Dr. Nichols, his therapist, has already been alerted that Dennis is here. The only solace Dennis can even remotely find in this eight circle of hell is Mac. Mac, who is sprawled out in a comfy ass looking chair, socked feet propped up on Dennis's mattress and blue thermal blanket keeping his buff, perfect body warm.

Mac blinks and yawns. "You just got here, Den. Probably not for a couple of days."

"I don't see how this is fair," he rationalizes. "I literally just got out of this place, and now doctors want me to wait around. For what?"

Mac scowls. "Gee, I dunno, Dennis, maybe to make sure your lungs don't explode?"

"Pretty sure lungs can't explode from pneumonia."

"Pretty sure your pussy ass lungs can," Mac points out. "Relax, dude. You'll be out of here soon."

Dennis sighs and sinks lower into the mattress. It's hard and lumpy as shit, nothing like the five inch thick memory foam topper he and Mac share at home. He may or may not be super close to crying because, come on, he's sick and feverish, and Mac is right fucking there, not even touching him. It's bad enough Mac dragged him here in the first place, but now he just gets to sit there and sleep?

Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.

"I'm cold," he grumbles, pulling the too thin blankets over his shoulders and grimacing when the movement tugs at his IV.

Mac's tired brown eyes pop open again. "Jesus Christ, dude. You're a freaking mess." He stands up and looks expectedly at Dennis, but Dennis's eyebrows furrow, and what is going on right now? "Scoot," Mac says, shooing Dennis to the other side of the bed with his hand.

Dennis obliges and hides his stupid grin because Mac probably already knows this makes him super happy. Mac settles in, careful to avoid all the shit Dennis is hooked up to while his lungs recover. He drapes a third blanket over the two of them, and Dennis takes this opportunity to wiggle until his head is placed on Mac's broad chest. Mac wraps his arms around Dennis.

"Okay?" Mac whispers softly, carding his fingers through Dennis's hair.

Dennis nods and blinks back the tears because, shit, this feels so good.

"Okay," he repeats.

 **9:30 AM**  
 **On a Sunday**

"Well, don't you two look cozy."

Dennis nods at his sister as he continues inhaling bronchodilators through a nebulizer. Dee plops down in the chair Mac was using earlier, crossing her legs and smiling really dumbly at Dennis. But Dee's obvious interest in his and Mac's life doesn't bother him. If anything, it's actually kind of nice to not be butting heads and manipulating the shit out of her.

Poor Mac's tuckered out, snoring quietly with his head resting on Dennis's shoulder. He's been out like a light since he laid down. It's great to have him so close by because, honestly, Dennis doesn't think he'd be able to listen to medical instructions without him. Mac keeps him grounded. Mac absorbs any information regarding Dennis, no matter what it is. Mac keeps Dennis feeling whole everyday and sane on the days where his rage and anxieties and neuroses take over his mind.

"I'm guessing you guys talked?" Dee asks.

Dennis nods and stops inhaling the medication because it's nearly empty anyway. "Yeah," he coughs.

"And?"

He shrugs. "And what?"

"Is he your boyfriend? Are you two banging? What's the scoop?"

"We have feelings for each other," Dennis says simply. "I don't give a shit about labels."

Dee nods. "Fair enough, I guess. I was just wondering if you two boners fucked it out yet."

"Woulda been pretty hard to fuck considering my lungs are filled with mucus," Dennis points out. "I'd sound like Mom on the rare occasions she and Frank fucked."

"You'd wheeze your ass off," Dee says. "Literally."

"Ugh, can you guys shut up?" Mac groans from beside Dennis, his gravelly voice sending the good kind of shivers up Dennis's spine. "Tryin' to sleep here."

"Aw, poor little Mac," Dee says.

Dennis rolls his eyes. He plants a kiss in Mac's soft hair just because he wants to. "Sorry, baby boy. Dee was just shutting up."

"Asshole," Dee mumbles. She pulls out a crinkled magazine and leans back in the chair.

Mac grabs Dennis's hand in his sleep; Dennis grins and let's his eyes droop closed.

 **12:45 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

"Hey-o! I got good news!" Mac announces as he re-enters Dennis's room, rolling in a TV on a rickety cart.

Dennis's eyes widen. "You found me a TV?"

"I found you a TV, dude!" Mac shouts triumphantly almost the instant the question leaves Dennis's mouth.

"I thought that bitch nurse Rhonda said there weren't any available?"

Mac shrugs. "I may've kinda stolen it from this old dude's room. He wasn't even watching it!"

Dennis smiles as he watches Mac hook it up. Mac's very cute or adorable or something like that when he's excited. He's like a puppy. Dennis, way before he figured out he has emotions, has always been jealous of Mac's happiness, his youthfulness, his unbridled joy even in times of confusion and insanity.

Also, Dennis may or may not be staring at Mac's ass; it's in his direct line of vision, after all.

Mac practically sprints over to Dennis's bed with the remote clutched in his hand. Dennis immediately begins to scoot over, mimicking his actions from the last time around. "Sit up, Den," Mac instructs. He does, wincing at the spasm rippling through his chest, and Mac slides in behind him instead of beside him. Mac's legs are on either side of Dennis's, Mac's body comforting Dennis in ways unimaginable.

Dennis grins as he relaxes his back against Mac's front. Mac clicks on the TV and flips channels until he finds a rerun of Family Guy.

"Hey," Mac says after a few minutes filled with Peter Griffin's obnoxious voice. "You still awake?"

Dennis nods.

"So... Um... I was thinking maybe we could talk for a minute? Y'know, about us?"

"Yeah?" Dennis asks. "What about us, baby boy?"

Mac inhales sharply, and, for a split second, Dennis forgets to breathe. No. He can't go through this again. Mac came out. He's out. Mac's admitted to being gay in the past, but he's gone back in the closet soon after in fear of being ridiculed or looked at differently or as a disappointment to God.

"What do I call you?" Mac questions quietly. "Like, obviously, your name is Dennis, but, like, are you my boyfriend or lover or partner?"

"Why put a label on it?" Dennis asks.

Mac rubs his fingers over Dennis's upper arm. "I dunno... Just feels more better to me. That way I won't get confused or anything."

"We can be whatever you want to be, baby. But I will say that I prefer 'boyfriend.'"

Mac chuckles. "Boyfriend," he hears him whisper. "I like that. Dennis Reynolds, the boyfriend of super strong and handsome Mac Reynolds."

Dennis furrows his eyebrows, but smiles nonetheless. "Mac Reynolds?"

"Well, yeah, bro. Can't expect me to walk around with the name Ronald McDonald anymore, right?"

"I love your name, Mac," Dennis says. "But I have to admit that 'Mac Reynolds' sounds super hot."

Mac kisses the back of Dennis's head, and Dennis tries very hard to keep it in his pants (also because he's not wearing pants, just a hospital gown). "Love you, Den."

"I love you too, baby boy."

 **6:25 PM**  
 **On a Sunday**

"Charlie's in the house! Charlie's in the house! Charlie's in the house!"

Dennis chuckles as Charlie does his signature butt dance, flaunting around the room with extravagant flare. Compared to how Charlie's been behaving recently, this is a nice change of pace. Dennis was starting to get really worried about the guy. But, still, he's going to keep watching and make sure Charlie isn't hiding anything from them. Not because he wants to manipulate him or have some kind of leverage over him, but because watching Charlie's hesitance toward just about everything after his attempt really spooked Dennis.

He wants to make sure he's okay.

"Dude, are you going scuba diving?" Charlie asks. "I wanna go!"

Mac playfully swats Charlie's hand away as he grabs for Dennis's nebulizer. "We can't scuba dive in Philly, bro," Mac points out.

Charlie plops down on the edge of the bed, squishing both Mac and Dennis's feet. But he's smiling, and there aren't any tear tracks on his face. But Dennis knows hiding is usually easier than confronting the issues at hand. He doesn't want to ruin the moment and drag it out of Charlie, even though the idea is a persistent buzzing at the back of his skull.

"Sooooo I see your penises decided to love each other again. That's awesome!"

Mac and Dennis exchange glances.

"Thanks, pal," Dennis says; he smiles even brighter when Mac grabs his hand.

A silence not filled with alcohol or drugs or delusions blankets the room. It isn't awkward, but it isn't normal for them either. Dennis guesses everything is a little fucked up right now. But no one is screaming at each other. No one is throwing punches or threatening to light someone on fire. No one is making needless hurtful comments. It's actually kind of nice.

Mac, go fucking figure, falls asleep with his mouth hanging wide open while they watch the six o'clock news.

"Dennis," Charlie whispers, tapping Dennis's covered foot shakily.

"Yeah, Charlie?"

Charlie rubs the back of his neck, and there's a weird uncertainty twinkling in his eyes. "You... um, aren't gonna 'you know what' again, right?"

"No, buddy. Never."

Charlie nods. It's obvious Dennis's answer isn't enough. "Why'd you do it?"

"Well, that's a loaded question, dude. There are lots of reasons why. I guess what it all really boiled down to was that I was tired of my life. I was tired of who I was. I couldn't control my emotions. I was hurting everyone around me," he explains. "I thought you guys would be better off without me."

Dennis has talked about the very reasons why he tried to commit suicide with Dr. Nichols more times than he can remember. There are so many different variables that go into "why." He never knew that before. At the time, all he knew was that he wanted out. But he doesn't want out anymore. He wants to fix his fuck ups and try to be a better person.

He'll probably still be an asshole sometimes, but hopefully at least a more tolerable one.

"Did it have anything to do with Mrs. Klinsky?"

Dennis bites his lower lip. His heart pounds relentlessly. His throat tightens.

Mac. He wants Mac.

But Mac's right here. He's right here holding his hand.

"Uh, some parts of it. I think... I think everything bad that happened in my life, whether I did it to myself, which was usually the case, or not just crashed into me. But, yeah, Mrs. Klinsky did play a role in those bad things."

Charlie nods slowly, apprehensively. "Did your doctor tell you that you were raped?"

"Yeah," Dennis says, swallowing his nausea. "Guys can get raped too."

"I thought you didn't think that?"

Dennis shrugs. "I do now. And it's not okay."

"Sometimes," Charlie says so softly Dennis can barely hear him, "I want to kill Uncle Jack. I want to kill him for what he did to me... Does that make me a bad person? Does that mean I'm going to try to kill myself?"

Dennis sits up a little straighter and looks Charlie straight in the eyes because, holy shit, did Charlie just admit to what happened to him? Dr. Nichols taught him that eye contact, which he doesn't use very often, is super important, especially in moments like these. "Do you want to kill yourself, Charlie?"

Charlie shakes his head and then immediately shrugs. "No. I mean... No. I like my life mostly. I like hanging out with you guys and playing Night Crawlers and goin' down to the sewers. But sometimes I have these, like, nightmares, and they make me feel, like, I dunno, gross and sick and stuff."

"You are not a bad person for wanting to kill him, Charlie. Fuck, I want to kill him just for what he did to you. No one should ever have to go through that."

His friend nods. "Promise me you won't do that again. Please promise me."

Dennis nods too, sitting up even more and extending his hand out to Charlie. He holds his pinky up. "I pinky swear."

Charlie locks their pinkies together, and it's cemented in this very moment. Dennis trembles while his teeth chatter relentlessly, but Charlie maneuvers himself to where he's propped against Mac and Dennis. He starts watching TV like he didn't say a Goddamn word.

"Are you okay, Charlie?" Dennis asks.

He feels Charlie nod against his leg. "Yeah. Yeah. I feel better after talking about it."

Dennis understands that completely.

"You can talk to me any time, pal. Day or night. I'm here for you."

He imagines Charlie's bright, lopsided, innocent smile. "Thanks, man."

 **10:10 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

"What're we doing for Halloween this year?" Dennis questions, munching aimlessly on a miniature Snickers. "It's in a few days."

He can feel Mac's glare from across the room. "You got out of the hospital, like, two hours ago, and you're wondering what we're doing for Halloween?"

"Um, yeah. That's why I asked."

"You're resting, dude. We'll watch movies and gorge ourselves on candy."

Dennis shrugs and doesn't say anything else. Mac's cooking omelets while Dennis lies on the couch, bundled in blankets and wrapped in one of Mac's sweatshirts. He feels a shit ton better, but his boyfriend (yes!) doesn't seem to get that. Dennis guesses he understands, though. Mac's trying to take care of him and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.

"So, I was thinking..." Mac says as he walks across the room with two plates in tow. He hands Dennis one of them and sits down at the end of the sofa; Dennis props his socked feet on Mac's thighs. "I kinda wanna tell my parents."

"Tell them what?" Dennis asks, his mouth full of delicious ass omelet.

"About me," he says. "About us."

Dennis's eyes widen. Holy shit. He just kind of assumed they were out to the world, to everyone minus Mac's parents. Mac's dad is a fucking piece of shit who warped his son's brain, and Mac's mom doesn't give two fucks about Mac in the first place. Mac used to live between Charlie and Dennis's houses, refusing to go to his because no one cared.

Just hearing Mac say that out loud makes Dennis proud.

"Are you sure?" Dennis still asks because, hey, he's learning to be aware of peoples' feelings, especially Mac's.

Mac nods. "I think so. Maybe. Not like today or anything, but soon."

"You know you don't have to, right? Do you feel like I'm forcing you to do it?"

Mac shakes his head, and his cute, floppy hair whisks in front of his eyes. "No way, Den. You've been really great about all of this. I just... I feel like I need to tell them."

Dennis grins and sits up, immediately pulling Mac in for a kiss. "I'm proud of you, Mac."

"I know, man. I'm the best."

Dennis laughs and kisses him again just because he can.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**3:20 AM**  
 **On a Wednesday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

"I can't sleep," Dennis mumbles, curling harder against Mac. He squishes his cheek into Mac's bare shoulder, peppering kisses on the freckles.

Old Dennis would already be drunk off his ass. Or maybe super high from the weed he knows Mac stores in the second drawer of their dresser. Old Dennis would be crabby. So fucking crabby. Like Mac would smack Dennis's face off of his face (a classic Charlie one liner that Mac stole) if Dennis said another Goddamn word.

But this is New Dennis, who doesn't drink because even the very thought of alcohol makes him queasy.

(Mac still drinks but not as much anymore; he doesn't drink in front of Dennis either.)

This New Dennis is stabilized with medication and self-help tools. Yeah, he's still Dennis and annoying and stuff, but he's different. New Dennis, instead of lashing out because he's tired, cuddles Mac and allows back rubs, something that never would've happened before.

But there are usually reasons why Dennis doesn't sleep, just like there are reasons why it rains or snows or why the moon affects the tide or some shit. Mac's heart thumps with worry. He swallows thickly. He hopes this isn't the beginning of the end.

(It'd be too easy for everything to fall apart now.)

"Anything I can do to help?" Mac asks softly.

Dennis pouts. "Knock me unconscious?"

"Yeah, I don't think so, babe," he says. "How about we watch some TV? Y'know to distract you?"

"There's never anything on at three AM, Mac," Dennis points out. "And I just wanna sleep..."

Dennis squirms, and Mac thinks Dennis is trying very hard to burrow inside Mac's body with the amount of wiggling he's doing. Dennis's cheeks are fiery against Mac's skin, and he knows exactly how uncomfortable fevers are. The last time Mac was sick (a nasty mid-summer flu that zapped Philly like lightning), the chills were totally unbearable. He had a fever for four straight days, and he was pretty positive he was going to die because, fuck, it was so awful.

But Dennis had been there for that too, just like they're there for each other during all of life's events. This, of course, was Old Dennis that took care of him (it was about two and a half months before Mac found him bleeding out in that bathtub). Old Dennis grumbled in frustration, his edges hard and worn and scary, but he tucked Mac in and cleaned up his puke regardless.

Mac still can't wrap his mind around any of this. It feels like he's walking in a daydream, a daydream filled with kisses and hugs from the one person he loves more than anyone in the galaxy. A person he's been in love with for over twenty years. But Dennis is right beside him, just like he always has been. It's different and the same. It's strange and foreign, them being together for real, but somehow familiar and safe at the same time.

"I had a nightmare earlier," Dennis whispers.

Mac grabs Dennis's hand. "What was it about?"

His boyfriend (he loves saying that more than he can explain with words) inhales deeply, sharply. Mac rolls on to his side, facing Dennis, who looks all of fourteen in the October moonlight. His eyes are misty and bloodshot, his breath warm and cinnamony on Mac's neck. Mac lays his forehead against Dennis's, and Dennis slings a skinny arm around Mac's waist.

"I... I couldn't breathe," Dennis explains shakily. "I can never breathe when I think about her."

Mac's eyebrows furrow. "About who, Den?"

"Mrs. Klinksy."

Mac's stomach drops down to his toes, and he gulps. He figured, honestly, they'd have this conversation eventually. They'd talk about how Mrs. Klinksy forced herself on Dennis, how just because Dennis 'came' doesn't mean he enjoyed it, how boys, even Dennis Reynolds, can be raped and taken advantage of.

Dennis shudders and shivers, and Mac rubs his hand up and down Dennis's arms. "My mom was there too. S-She watched us... me and Mrs. Klinksy... And she told me she'd never been prouder of me. Proud, Mac. Her son, her fourteen year old son, was fucking raped right in front of her, and she was proud?" he spits out, eyes clouding with anger. "She always did that to me as a kid, you know? I'd have to be the best at everything, even sex."

"I remember," Mac whispers. "She was always really hard on you."

Dennis nods. "I told her once... about Mrs. Klinksy. She wanted to know how quickly I orgasmed. She wanted to know if I pleasured her, if her Dennis was the best she'd ever had."

"Shit, man..."

"It really fucked me up, Mac," he says quietly.

"It would've fucked me up too, Den."

"Sometimes... Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the two of them. Dr. Nichols said that it's normal for people who experience trauma to have nightmares, but... I'm almost forty, Mac... When's it all gonna stop?"

A few tears stream down Dennis's pale cheeks; Mac wipes them away with his thumb. Dennis crumbles into Mac's touch, burying his snotty nose in Mac's neck. Mac strokes Dennis's hair, brushing the curls from his heated forehead. He bites his lower lip when Dennis hiccups against him.

"Dennis, baby, you went through something awful," Mac says. "You never should've had to go through any of that. I don't know if the nightmares will ever stop. I hope they do because seeing you in pain hurts me. But you're in therapy. You're taking your meds and doing good. You're getting better."

"I don't feel much better..." Dennis murmurs. His breath tickles Mac's skin.

Mac kisses whatever part of Dennis is closest. "You've gone through a lot of fucked up shit. There will be good and bad days. But I am proud of you, Den. So so proud."

Dennis sniffles and somehow manages to scoot closer until they're flushed against each other. "I really do love you, Mac," Dennis whispers. "Thank you for being so amazing."

Mac plants a slow, sweet kiss on Dennis's soft lips. "You're gonna be okay, babe," he says. "And I really love you too."

(He doesn't even have to look at Dennis to know he's smiling.)

 **1:15 PM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

"Fuck, Dennis..." Mac moans, goo in Dennis's arms. "That was... That was..."

"Good, right?"

"Fucking amazing, Den," he breathes out.

Dennis gives him a crooked grin before laying on top of Mac. They're naked, and Dennis is panting, and Mac has literally never felt better in his entire life. When Dennis is inside him, he can't contain the joy that ruptures through his core. It's electric and beautiful, and, shit, Mac never ever wants Dennis to go anywhere ever again.

Mac traces his fingers up and down Dennis's spine. His touches linger, long and slow and soft. Dennis keeps kissing his neck, and it's fucking driving him up the wall in the best way possible, and, okay, how is it possible for him to already have an erection?

"You getting hard for me again, baby boy?" Dennis whispers.

Mac nods. "My turn."

"Your turn for what?"

"I'm gonna fuck you just the way you like it."

Dennis trembles beneath Mac's fingertips; it's so much more better than Mac ever expected.

 **3:50 PM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

"They look more better," Mac says as he rubs scar reducing ointment on Dennis's forearms. The long, pink, angry scars seem less angry everyday, less pissed off at the world. The self-inflicted bruises, prompted by Mac's abrupt disappearance, are yellow-ish blue instead of deep, dark purple.

Dennis shrugs and rolls down his sleeves once Mac finishes. "Guess so."

Mac frowns. "You alright?"

Dennis has been a little quiet since they banged earlier.

The question earns him another shrug.

"Dude," Mac says, placing both of his hands on Dennis's thighs. "You gotta talk to me. No more holding things in, remember?"

His boyfriend nods, scrubbing a hand over his cheek. "What am I gonna do, Mac? I can't work in the bar. My degree from Penn is fucking useless now. I don't have any money..." He trails off, and Mac takes his hand.

"What do you wanna do, Den?" he asks. "Like if you could do anything, what would you do?"

Dennis scratches the top of his head. "I dunno, Mac. I thought about going back to school, but I'm too old for that shit."

"You're not too old."

Dennis scoffs. "How many thirty-eight year olds do you know in college?"

"Well, that's not a fair question because, like, the only person I know who's ever even finished college is you."

"That's besides the point," he says. "I don't wanna do nothing for the rest of my life just because I tried to off myself."

Mac nods and rubs his thumb over Dennis's knuckles. "You don't have to decide anything right now, man. I know you're feeling more better everyday, which is great, but try not to put too many things in your basket."

"Your metaphors are so cute," Dennis says with a smile.

Mac grins. "I try. But, seriously, Dennis, you're still trying to figure shit out. It's okay to be confused. I'm confused everyday."

"I'll guide you through your confusion," Dennis tells him, kissing him tenderly. "Have I mentioned today that I love you?"

Mac pecks the tip of Dennis's nose. "I love you too, Den."

"Wanna bang on the kitchen table?" Dennis asks after a few moments of comfortable silence.

Mac throws off his t-shirt. "You don't even have to ask."

 **7:00 PM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

"Are we almost done?" Dennis whines, following his grumble with a wet cough. He leans over the shopping cart as Mac tosses two boxes of well thought out cereal choices in the basket. He's trying to follow Dennis's meal plans perfectly, which he's doing pretty good at. Sure, Dennis threw in baby Snickers and a huge bag of Peanut M&Ms, but Mac is just really grateful Dennis eats now. He's always been a comfort eater too.

"Yeah. We just gotta get some eggs and milk, and then we're good to go. Tired?"

Dennis nods and winces as he coughs again. "Chest kinda hurts too."

Mac rubs Dennis's shoulder and takes over pushing the cart. He tried to come to the store on his own since they're out of pretty much everything, but Dennis tagged along because he didn't want to be bored alone at the apartment. But Dennis is still under the weather, and his energy was gone after about fifteen minutes of heavy duty grocery shopping.

Dennis guards the cart from frantic last minute Halloween shoppers invading the dairy section while Mac shuffles through the chaos to grab a gallon of two percent milk (Mac prefers whole, but Dennis used to only drink skim, so this is their compromise). He's reaching for one when a hand lightly stops his.

"Sorry about that," a man with bright green eyes and swept over blond hair says. "Just thought I'd warn you. That one's expiring tomorrow."

Mac nods and smiles. "Yeah, that'd be no good. Thanks."

Usually, that would be the end of the conversation, but the man with super green eyes keeps smiling at Mac. "I'm Jeremy," the dude says, extending his hand, this time for Mac to shake.

"Mac," he says.

"Well, Mac, what're you doing on Halloween? Because I'm throwing this -"

"Uh, excuse me." Mac's eyes widen when Dennis pushes himself in the middle of him and the other dude. Dennis turns around to look at Mac. "You ready?"

Mac nods.

"What's your problem, man?" the guys asks.

Uh oh.

The Old Dennis would've already flipped his lid and knocked the dude straight on his ass.

But, judging by the bright blue eyes getting darker with envy and the clenched jaw, Mac figures New Dennis may already be halfway to the lid-flipping extravaganza.

"I don't have a problem, man," Dennis states.

"You know this dude?"

"Do I know him?" Dennis says harshly. "Fuck you, dumbass."

The dude, Justin or Josh or some shit, is, like, head taller than Dennis. He's got broad shoulders and meaty looking hands. Dennis is scrappy and agile as shit, but Mac is a little doubtful about Dennis's fighting capabilities right now.

(Plus, y'know, he shouldn't be condoning violence when Dennis is doing so well, even if this is really really really turning him on.)

"Relax, babe," Mac says, gently grabbing Dennis's shoulders and steering him back to their cart. He pushes Dennis up against the shelves and kisses him. Hard. He feels Dennis's dick harden once they're flushed together. "That was so hot."

Dennis chuckles. "Well, I'm glad you think so. I was totally about to kick that douche's ass."

Mac brushes Dennis curls off his forehead. "Two broken fingers?"

Dennis shakes his head. "Three," he says. "And a busted nose."

Mac just kisses him again.

(He swears the whole store is watching, but fuck them; let them watch.)

 **4:40 PM**  
 **On a Friday**

"Happy Ghoul Day!" Charlie exclaims, entering Mac and Dennis's apartment with two jumbo pillowcases dragging on the ground.

Mac's eyebrows furrow. "Where the shit did you get all that candy, man?"

Charlie shrugs. "I took it from some little kid."

"What? Why?" Dennis asks. Mac takes this opportunity to soak in the image of his lovely boyfriend wearing Mac's RIOT t-shirt with an orange long sleeved shirt beneath it and grey sweatpants. He's already sprawled out beneath a blanket on the couch, his head cradled with memory foam pillows. He definitely looks ready for their Halloween movie marathon, starting with Predator, of course.

He's never looked better to Mac.

(Ignore him; he always think that about Dennis. Always.)

"He was just, like, standing there, dude! I couldn't resist!" Charlie explains.

Dennis chuckles. "That's why you're the Wild Card, dude," he says. "Got any Snickers?"

Charlie dumps an entire pillowcase all over the floor, a sea of candy enveloping their living room. Dennis is about to sit up when Mac shoves him back down, a hand securely on his chest. He grabs Dennis a few mini Snickers bars.

"I coulda got that," Dennis mumbles, opening a wrapper and shoving the chocolate in his mouth.

Mac kisses his forehead. "I know, but you need to rest."

Dee arrives a few minutes later, followed by Frank. They're all slightly wasted, besides Dennis of course, and Mac wanted to make sure no one came into their home with alcohol on them, especially since Mac got rid of it all a few days ago. Dennis doesn't mind, and Mac is cutting back anyway.

(Maybe eventually he'll be completely sober like Dennis.)

Charlie takes up as much room on the couch as humanly possible. Frank collapses in the black chair, burping and cackling, while Dee settles down on the floor beneath an electric blanket. Dennis sinks to where his head is pillowed in Mac's lap, his feet draped over Charlie's legs.

Mac runs his fingers through Dennis's curls and squeezes Dennis's hand during the scary parts.

 **10:40 AM**  
 **On a Monday**  
 **Coal Township, PA**

It's the day after the first snowfall when Mac visits his dad at the Coal Township State Correctional Institution. Dennis drives, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of each Bryan Adams song that echoes through the Rover. Mac pretends he isn't about to explode with nerves, his anxieties splattering all over the interior of Dennis's beloved amphibious exploring vehicle.

Mac is shaking as they sign in. It's so bad he can't even hold a pen. Dennis takes over and does it for him.

"You'll be okay, baby boy," Dennis whispers. "You'll be okay."

Mac nods and gulps. He sweats through the strip search part of this journey. He tries not to puke.

He's coming out today.

Okay, he's been out for a bit, but not to his father.

(He told his mom yesterday. She grunted and continued smoking. Dennis held him all night after that because Mac couldn't stop crying. Mom never cared about him anyway, so why would she care about this?)

Mac bites his bottom lip until it bleeds. A guard takes them to the famous visiting room, clad with uncomfortable plastic chairs and a giant glass wall to keep the bad guys in. His heart thump thump thumps in his ears. He swallows and gulps and sheds his leather jacket.

"Hey," Dennis whispers, taking Mac's left hand in his right. "Take a deep breath, Mac."

Mac does. He always listens to whatever Dennis says.

Luther McDonald makes his grand appearance a few seconds later. He's as angry looking as ever. Mac's suddenly transported to when he was nine, cradling his broken arm and crying for his dad to fix it. His dad told him to rub some dirt on it and get the fuck out of his face. Mrs. Kelly took him to the ER instead; Mac's cast was green, and Charlie was so jealous of it.

Mac picks up the phone with his trembly hand. "Hi, Dad," he says.

"What is it?"

Mac frowns and glances at Dennis. Dennis nods and squeezes tighter. "I... Um... I just wanted to tell you something."

His dad sighs and rolls his eyes. "Okay. Spit it out," he says. "And don't take all day either."

Suddenly, Mac's thirteen and caught jerking off to the magazines his mom keeps under her bed. His dad's hands had wound around Mac's neck, lifting him out of bed and shaking him until he couldn't think straight.

"No son of mine is gonna be a fag," his dad had said.

Mac was so distraught because his dad actually called him "son" that he didn't look at dude porn again until he was almost thirty.

He feels Dennis pat his thigh reassuringly, and it snaps him back into reality.

"I don't have all day," his dad says.

"I'm gay," Mac expels like it's acid. "I'm gay, Dad."

He can't read his dad's face. "I always knew you were a fag, kid. Nothing new there."

"But you said..."

"Who gives a shit? Are you done?"

Tears swell in Mac's eyes, and he nods. He's about to hang the phone up when Dennis grabs it from him.

"You're a fucking asshole," Dennis tells Luther McDonald. "You fucking piece of shit. You don't deserve Mac."

Mac's dad hangs up a split second later and leaves without looking back.

"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry," Dennis whispers soothingly as he holds on to Mac for dear life right in the middle of the visiting room. "He doesn't deserve you. You're so wonderful, Mac. You're so so wonderful."

(It almost doesn't feel like enough. Almost.)


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**11:05 AM**  
 **On a Monday**  
 **Coal Township, PA**

He has these dreams sometimes.

Well, he guesses they can be clearly defined as 'nightmares' instead because, honestly, they are pretty fucking terrifying.

He's always in this void, in between Heaven and Hell, space and the ocean, time and floating. It's always pitch black, save for a tiny candle burning; Dennis still doesn't know how it hovers like that, but maybe it doesn't matter. What matters is what the small light points him to as he wanders aimlessly in the darkness.

Every now and then, the 'who' changes, but, usually, the light is Mac. He's angelic and glowing, the pure embodiment of a god. He smiles almost creepily at Dennis; it makes him stomach squirm and his body feel like it no longer belongs to him. Mac grabs Dennis's hand, ushering him through the void. His hand is ice cold. It's everything and nothing all at once.

Mac lights up the darkness, but not in his nightmares.

No, this Mac has a knife.

The same knife Dennis used on September 26, 2014. He can tell. He knows.

And this Mac... He slices Dennis's forearms with keen precision. Slices and cuts until blood spurts from Dennis's collapsed veins.

Dennis doesn't scream. Mac keeps grinning.

And then, just as he's about to really drift into the void inside his mind, his eyes snap open.

Mac, his Mac, is always right there, hands placed reassuringly on Dennis's shoulders with his legs straddled around Dennis's hips. Mac whispers sweet nothings in his ear while Dennis tries hard to maintain his grip on reality.

His Mac keeps him grounded, safe, secure.

But their relationship, before it was even formly classified as a 'relationship' is a give and take. Dennis takes a lot. He's known this since he was sixteen. Mac is a giver. He's light-hearted, fun, sweet, sexy, and caring. He'd go to the ends of the Earth to help Dennis, no matter what the situation is.

One time, when Dennis was seventeen, he crashed Frank's car. It flipped over in a ditch, and Dennis broke his arm. Mac was with him, thankfully and mercifully unscathed, minus a few scrapes and bruises. Mac stayed cool and calm and collected while Dennis freaked out, cradling his injured appendage and whispering to no one. Mac didn't call 911 because he didn't want Dennis to get in trouble; instead, Mac carried Dennis the five miles to the ER and stayed with him overnight when it was confirmed that Dennis had a concussion.

Frank still doesn't know what happened to that car. Dennis never told, and Mac was (still is) too nice of a guy to rat him out, even with the horrible nickname 'Ronnie the Rat' practically tattooed on Mac's forehead at school.

And, now, as Dennis sits beside a silent Mac, he knows it's his turn to give. He should've been doing it their whole lives. He should've been a better friend, a better person in general. Mac's given enough. Mac's given everything he's ever had to Dennis.

It's not going to be like that anymore.

Dennis wraps his arm around Mac's tense shoulders. They're sitting on a bench outside of Coal Township State Correctional Institution. Flurries fall peacefully, lighting up the scenery in white, landing in Mac's hair. Dennis quickly pulls off his beanie once he notices this, tugging it over Mac's ears.

Mac tries to remove it, but Dennis stops him.

"Leave it, Mac," Dennis says softly.

Mac shakes his head almost crazily. "You just got over pneumonia, Den..."

Dennis shrugs. "I'm fine, baby. Totally fine."

Mac seems okay with that answer. It's unusual to say the least.

"You hate your parents, right?" Mac asks quietly, almost like he's talking to no one. "Like, I know Frank isn't your real dad, but he was kinda there while you were growing up. Is it... Do you think it's okay to hate your parents?"

Dennis nods. "Yeah, Mac. I think it's okay when your parents are total dick bags. Your mom avoided you, and your dad, for some bizarre reason, resented you. I remember that you used to never go home because of them; you would always stay with me or Charlie."

"I just want them to care about me, but they don't," Mac whispers. "They've never given a single shit about me. I could be dead in a ditch right now, and you and Charlie are the only ones who would bother looking."

"Well, I'd be in the ditch too, baby boy," Dennis says. "I'm not going anywhere, remember?"

He's trying to make Mac laugh or grin or something, but it doesn't work.

"I think I hate them, Dennis. What kinda person am I? I'm stupid and barely finished school. I'm gay. I hate my parents, my own flesh and blood. Like how am I supposed to get into Heaven? I'm such a fuck up."

Mac's near tears, and Dennis wraps around him even more, as much as he can on this snowy bench in the beginning of November. He peppers kisses on Mac's cheek and swallows thickly. Mac lights up Dennis's darkness. He doesn't deserve any of this.

"First off, you're nowhere near stupid. Second, there's nothing remotely wrong with being gay, okay? You are perfect just the way you are, Mac. Finally, fuck your parents. Fuck them both. Fuck them for not seeing how wonderful of a person you are. Mac, baby, you got dealt a rough hand in life... But you can't bring yourself down like this. I know it hurts. I know it sucks. But I want you to know I'm not leaving you. Me and Charlie and Dee and, fuck, maybe even Frank, are here for you."

Mac sniffles and nods and wipes his wet eyes with his leather jacket; Dennis wipes the rest with his gloved hand. "You sound like a walking shrink, dude."

Dennis chuckles. "Well, I do go to a shrink once a week. Dr. Nichols must be rubbing off on me."

"I'm proud of you, man," Mac says, and Dennis's eyes widen. "Look at how far you've come."

"We," Dennis says. "Look how far we've gotten."

 **8:30 PM**  
 **On a Monday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

"Tired?" Dennis asks with a mouthful of pasta because fuck the calories.

Mac shrugs. "Kinda."

"Wanna go to bed early tonight?"

"Maybe," he says. "I dunno."

Dennis leans forward, placing the bowl on the kitchen table. Mac's been kind of quiet since their talk outside of that fuckhead's prison. The two-plus hour drive back to Philly was made in mostly silence. Dennis didn't try too hard to push anything else out of Mac; he knows sometimes people just need to think on their own without someone shoving in.

Of course, that was hours ago, and Mac is still acting strangely distant.

"What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?" Dennis asks, scooting a little closer to Mac on the couch.

Mac sighs. "I'm just... I just don't really feel anything right now, y'know? Like I can't make myself happy or sad or angry or whatever."

Dennis bites his bottom lip. "You feel empty?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "Empty. Isn't... Isn't that, like, a symptom thingy of BPD?"

Dennis carefully takes Mac's hand, grinning slightly when Mac squeezes back. "Sorta. I used to think I just couldn't feel anything, but then I found out that I was feeling all along. But the feelings were uncontrollable and taking over my whole body."

"And then you..."

Dennis nods. "Yeah..." he says. "But that doesn't mean you have BPD."

"You don't think I do?"

He shakes his head. "No, I don't personally think you do, but I'm not a shrink." Dennis's eyes widen as a thought swells up in his mind like a balloon. "Mac, have you ever thought about going to therapy?"

"I drive you to therapy every week, dude."

"No, I mean like you sitting down with someone and talking your feelings out," Dennis explains. "It sounds hoaky at first, and I was super fucking skeptical, but, Mac, it really helps."

Mac shrugs again. "I dunno..."

Dennis notes the exhaustion gnawing at Mac's demeanor. He'll save the rest of this conversation for another time. He gently tugs Mac's arm until he gets the hint and lays his head in Dennis's already pillowed lap. Mac yawns and curls up on his side as Dennis covers him up.

"I love you, Den," Mac whispers.

Dennis cards his fingers through Mac's fluffy hair. "I love you too, baby boy."

 **5:45 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

A series of frantic knocks is what causes Dennis to blink awake.

He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, stretching out like a cat before slowly slipping out of bed. The knocks continue, quick and foreceful.

Dennis opens their door, and Charlie immediately barrels inside. The sobs emenating from Charlie are terrible. He sounds like he's grieving, mourning, with everything that he has. The half asleep tiredness escapes his body in an instant, and Charlie buries himself in Dennis's arms, hiccupping and crying.

"What's going on, Charlie?" Dennis asks softly, rubbing Charlie's through an oversized coat Dennis identifies as his own. Charlie shakes his head over and over again, breath catching in his throat. "Shh... Breathe. You gotta breathe, bud."

He doesn't know how long he holds Charlie for. He loses track of time in between the distraught sobs. Dennis is about ready to usher Charlie to the couch in order to help him rest and relax because he's so worked up. It may be super dark in the apartment right now, but Dennis knows Charlie's face is red with worry and hurt and confusion and pain.

"I... I h-hurt my hand..." Charlie grates out against Dennis's chest.

Dennis bites the inside of his cheek. "Want me to take a look at it?"

Charlie shakes his head. "N-No. Hurts. Bad."

Dennis pulls away from Charlie. The whimpers cut through him like a sharp blade, but Dennis flips on the living room light anyway. Charlie's cradling his right arm, lips trembling and eyes watering. Dennis doesn't even have to roll up the sleeve to see the dried blood on his knuckles or the dark purple bruising and swelling engrossing Charlie's hand.

"It's broken," Dennis says, and Charlie nods. "We need to get you to the hospital."

"Uncle Jack died," Charlie spits out the second Dennis makes a move for his coat.

His eyes widen. "What?" he asks. "When?"

"Few hours ago... Mom told me... Don't know why it bothered me so much..."

"Bud, I -"

Charlie cuts him off. "I think I killed him..."

"What makes you think that?"

Charlie sniffles, and even more tears stream down his flushed cheeks. "Remember when we talked while you had that lung thing?"

Dennis nods.

"I-I said that... I said that I wanted to k-kill him, and now he's dead. But I didn't do anything to him, you know? He was just there one sec and then, poof, gone the sec after..."

Dennis rubs his hand over his stubbly cheek. Fuck. Shit. This is bad. Not because Jack Kelly is dead - no, that's good for everyone, especially Charlie - but because Charlie believes just by vocalizing that he kind of wants something bad to happen to Jack that he caused his death.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Charlie," Dennis says as soothingly as possible. "You didn't hurt him."

"I feel l-like I did... And wanna know the sad thing? Part of me is happy... P-Part of me is happy he's dead because he can't hurt me anymore..."

Charlie hugs Dennis again, hiding his face in Dennis's chest.

"You're alright, bud. You're alright."

 **7:20 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

Charlie is asleep with his head on Mac's shoulder in the waiting room. The poor dude was so worn out that Mac carried him from the apartment to the Rover to the ER.

"What the hell's taking so long?" Mac asks, irritation punctuating his every word. "We've been here for, like, an hour already."

Dennis shrugs. He doesn't know the answer. The place doesn't seem busy; they're three of seven people in the waiting room, after all. But maybe something's going on back there that they aren't aware of.

Whatever it is, it better be fucking important.

"Do you think he did that on purpose?" Mac asks, gesturing carefully to Charlie's cradled arm.

Dennis gulps. Dennis remembers Charlie asking him that very question the first time he was allowed visitors in the ICU. "I dunno. Maybe."

"Fuck," Mac sighs. "We just can't catch a break, can we?"

"Karma," Dennis states. "It's karma. We've been assholes for almost forty years. Can't expect everything to legally, magically go our way anymore."

"You believe in karma?"

Dennis nods. "I do now."

 **10:10 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

By the time he drives back to the apartment, Dennis is quivering with fatigue. It took forever and a fucking half for Charlie to be seen. It took even longer for a doctor to put a cast on Charlie's broken wrist, covering the injury from hand to elbow. It's an obnoxious, loud pink color that gives Dennis a headache, but Mac and Charlie both cracked up at it, so he supposes it's worth it.

Charlie's doped up on painkillers. He can't walk in a straight line. In fact, the dude can barely stand up, so Mac does the honors and carries him the whole way, glowing in triumph because finally working out something other than his glamor muscles paid off. Mac gently sets an out of it Charlie on the couch; Dennis grabs a pillow for elevation and an ice pack to keep the swelling down. He situates Charlie's arm while Mac manages to get his shoes off.

"His feet stink," Mac says with a grimace.

"Do not.. Smells..." Charlie burps. "Great."

"Whatever, dude. I'm not even gonna try to get those socks off of you. They're probably part of your skin now."

Dennis squirms at that mental image, but, in the end, Charlie's very very stinky feet don't matter. In the end, Charlie's broken wrist and the death of Jack Kelly and Mac's parents not giving a fuck about him and Dennis trying to kill himself doesn't matter.

What matters, Dr. Nichols always says, is living each day the best they can.

Yeah yeah yeah. It's a repetitive, bullshit sounding philosophy, but Dennis thinks there may be some truth behind it after all.

One day at a time. That's all they have to make it through.

"You okay, bro?" Mac asks Charlie.

Charlie gives a thumbs up and falls fast asleep a few minutes after that, snoring loudly and drooling like an overactive waterfall.

 **3:35 PM**  
 **On a Tuesday**

"Do you think we should be worried about Charlie?" Mac questions quietly. He's cute with messy hair and sleepy eyes, and Dennis kisses him for the billionth time in an hour because he can't resist Mac Reynolds.

Dennis hums in Mac's ear. "I'm always worried about Charlie, but, I dunno, something seems different about him since he told me about Jack."

"No shit, dude. He broke his wrist in two places by punching a wall."

"That's not what I mean. He just seems lighter and more carefree, less scared, than he has since..."

Mac nods. "He was really fucked up while you were in the hospital."

"Yeah, he's been pretty fucked up for a while," Dennis says. "But we'll keep an eye on him. Hopefully since Jack is dead things will get a little easier for him."

"That sounds so sick. Like, I mean, what he did to Charlie is fucking disgusting, but it's weird to be happy that someone is dead, you know?"

"Yeah, I get what you mean."

Mac scoots closer to Dennis, flushing their bodies together beneath the comforter. Dennis buries his nose in Mac's neck, and Mac rubs his back lightly with his fingertips. Their sleep schedule is all sorts of screwed up, but oh well. Dennis loves lounging around with Mac, absorbing his love and warmth like a sponge.

Dennis is mostly asleep when their bedroom door creaks open.

"Guys?" Charlie's timid voice calls.

"Come over here, bud," Dennis says, patting an empty space beside him.

Charlie obliges, settling down next to Dennis on the mattress. He grumbles in pain for a few minutes before Mac gets up to grab the pillow and ice pack from the couch. Once that's taken care of, Charlie fidgets and nestlss himself against Dennis's back, comforter pulled up to his nose.

It's hard to believe he'd want to leave all this behind.

He almost did leave this behind.

Dennis shakes the negative thoughts from his mind and focuses on something different. Focuses on Charlie's breath on his neck. Focuses on Mac's heartbeat. Focuses on them being together, really together, for the first time in their lives.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**7:00 AM**  
 **On a Tuesday**  
 **Philadelphia**

 _Three weeks later_

This isn't the first time he's woken up wrapped around Dennis.

Mac knows this definitely won't be the last; Dennis likes being the little spoon way more than Mac expected.

The late November sun is stopped from entering their room by the black out curtains Mac closed last night, right before Dennis fell asleep but right after they finished boning on the carpet. Mac has red patches of rug burn on his knees and elbows to prove it. His arm slinged over Dennis's waist, he kisses his boyfriend's neck before staring blissfully at his freckled shoulders.

Boyfriend. Dennis is his boyfriend.

It's still so strange, so surreal, that the man he's been pining after since they were just teenagers loves him. Prior to beginning a cocktail of mood stabilizers, Mac wasn't sure Dennis, who had a shit ton of trouble feeling out his emotions, was capable of loving anyone, especially Mac. He knows that's terrible to say and think, but Dennis was pretty far gone around the time he tried to kill himself.

Now, Dennis is more better, a shit ton more better, and Mac can't sleep. He has such a hard time settling down at night, even when he's holding Dennis. Sometimes, Dennis wakes up and cuddles Mac instead, gently rubbing whatever part of Mac is closest. He enjoys being the little spoon sometimes too, but it just feels... weird.

He can't really explain it.

It's like he's torn between two versions of himself, the one who's been a closeted gay man since childhood and the one who's madly in love with another dude.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees his dad's disappointment, his rage, his anger. Mac, even at thirty-seven, wants to make his dad proud. He doesn't want Luther McDonald to think his son is a useless fucking waste of space. He used to say that to Mac constantly. It stings. It hurts. It fucking shreds him into tiny, insignificant pieces that can only be pieced back together again by alcohol and huffing and Dennis.

His mom doesn't give a rat's ass about him. She's been that way since Mac was Ronnie, a twink, small three year old kid with messy hair and constantly bruised cheeks. His mom didn't say anything when his dad wailed on him; she was always much more interested in chain-smoking and watching television on the porch of Mac's childhood home.

Mac remembers. He remembers way more than alcohol and huffing and Dennis should allow him to. He remembers rarely coming home once he met Charlie. He remembers his dad finding him kissing Dennis once when he was sixteen. He remembers Luther McDonald twisting a few fingers on Mac's left hand, breaking them in half like they were nothing.

Like he was nothing.

He shouldn't think about this.

The past is the past. It's over. It's done with.

He wonders if Dennis is right. Maybe he should go to therapy. Maybe it'll help with the nightmares and the flashbacks.

Maybe it'll help him understand why his parents don't love him.

(Why they've never loved him.)

Without even actually thinking about it, Mac shakes Dennis's bare shoulder. His boyfriend startles awake and rolls over until he's facing Mac.

"Baby," Dennis whispers, immediately bringing his thumb to Mac's cheek. "What's wrong? Why're you crying?"

"I'm messed up, Den..." he croaks out. "I'm so fucking messed up."

Dennis shakes his head and wipes Mac's wet cheeks and plants careful kisses on his collarbone. "No no no, baby boy. You're not messed up... You're not messed up..."

It should be comforting, but it isn't.

(It should mean everything, but it doesn't.)

"Dennis..." Mac whimpers. "P-Please... Please..."

His boyfriend wraps his arms around Mac's waist. A few months ago, Mac would've been on top of the world. Old Dennis never gave him affection. But, in the blistering cold of this November morning, it isn't enough.

(And that scares the fuck out of him.)

"Mac," Dennis whispers. "You gotta talk to me, baby. Tell me what's wrong."

"I don't know!" Mac shouts, suddenly pushing Dennis away. Mac curls himself in a ball on top of their bed, pulling his legs to his chest and hiding his face in his knees. He's seen Dennis assume this position a bajillion times. Maybe it helps or some shit. "I... I think I wanna be left alone right now."

Dennis is frozen on the other side of the bed. His face stressed, Mac watches him bite his lip over and over again. Mac watches Dennis start to pinch his covered arms, reopening wounds he thought he helped Dennis heal.

"I'm not leaving you, Mac," Dennis says quietly.

Mac rolls his eyes. "Why? 'Cuz you're too righteous to listen to me now?"

"What? No. I'm here for you, okay? I'm right here, and I want you to know that."

"Just go, Dennis."

"No," he says simply.

Red.

All Mac sees is red.

He wants to throttle Dennis until his face is a bloody pulp. He wants to... He wants to...

(Can't control it can't control it can't control it.)

Mac's vision blackens, and somehow Dennis is now underneath him, pinned between Mac's strong body and the floor.

He can't breathe. He swears he can't. Air won't find its way into his lungs. He needs to breathe. He knows he needs to, but... But...

"Mac," he hears. "Mac, you're okay. Relax. Just breathe. You're okay, baby. Shh... Shh..."

He shakes his head and swallows the vomit rising in his throat.

Bad. This is bad. He's bad.

Worthless.

Stupid.

Fucking waste of space.

"Remember when we went camping a few years ago?" Dennis asks, voice firm and unwavering; Mac just nods. "We fought all night on how to pitch the tent the right way. Literally all night. It was midnight or some shit before we realized we didn't even bring the tent."

"Or food," Mac whispers.

Dennis nods. "Or water. We survived that night on beer and that pack of stale crackers we found in the back of the Rover."

Mac pushes himself off of Dennis and leans heavily against the bed. Dennis's face is shades of red and purple. His curls are messy and plastered to his forehead. He's still pinching his arms.

"I... I don't know what j-just happened..." Mac tries to explain, throat sore and eyes swollen. "I'm so sorry, Den. I didn't mean... I didn't mean to..."

Dennis stops him. "Don't worry about it. I've done it to you more times than I can count," he whispers. "You okay?"

Mac thinks about it for a few moments before shaking his head. "No. I'm not okay. I'm not okay, Dennis, and it's scaring the shit out of me."

 **12:25 PM**  
 **On a Wednesday**

Somehow, Dennis pulls strings at the hospital and gets Mac an appointment with a psychiatrist the day before Thanksgiving. It's not Dr. Nichols for privacy reasons, which kinda sucks because at least Mac sorta knows Dr. Nichols. He doesn't want to meet anyone new today.

"Hey," Dennis whispers, putting his right hand on Mac's left thigh; Mac tries to get it to stop shaking and bouncing, but it doesn't work. "You'll do great."

Mac throws his head back dramatically and glances over at Dennis, who is sporting a bruised chin and right cheek thanks to Mac's blinding panic attack yesterday. "Can't I just go with you?" he whines.

"Dennis," Martha, one of Dennis's nurses while he was in the hospital, says. "Dr. Nichols is ready for you."

Just as Dennis stands up, Mac grabs his hand. "Den," he whispers. "Don't go."

Dennis leans down, tipping Mac's chin back with his fingertips. He kisses Mac slow and soft and sweetly all at once. It makes Mac feel exponentially better. "Everything will be fine, baby boy. I love you."

"Love you too," Mac whispers, watching Dennis walk into Dr. Nichols' office; he looks behind him twice and smiles at Mac.

Mac's legs won't stop trembling. He can't get his breathing under control. The room spins. He wipes the sweat pooling on his forehead and tries to inhale deeply. He taps his fingers on his cargo pants to a foreign rhythm. It's so fucking hot in here.

He's about to fucking flee the building when Martha's voice rings in his ears. "Mac Reynolds?"

(Here it goes.)

Mac gets to his feet and almost passes out. His vision goes wonky, and it's so disorienting that he isn't even aware he's in the office until his ass connects with a cold leather chair. He swallows thickly.

"Hello, Mac. I'm Laura Reilly."

She extends her hand, which Mac shakes wordlessly.

Dr. Reilly has curly blond hair. Her curls remind Mac of Dennis. She's wearing a skirt thing and a blue blouse, and she must be pretty tall. He thinks her shoulders might be wider than Dennis's, but not Mac's because Mac works out, like, all the time.

"So the questionnaire you filled out says you've been experiencing what you believe to be panic attacks," Dr. Reilly begins.

Mac nods and licks his lips. He fidgets with the zipper of his coat. He repeats the numbers up to twenty in Spanish over and over again in his brain because it offers him some semblance of normalcy, of calmness. His chest aches. He wants to bolt out of this fucking chair and run far far away from here.

"I'm gay," Mac suddenly blurts out, unable to hold it in any longer.

(He's been hiding it for so long he's pretty sure he's broken his filter.)

Dr. Reilly nods. She writes something down, and Mac almost throws up again. "Did you recently come out?"

"Yeah. About a month ago."

"How was your coming out experience? Positive? Negative?"

Mac wipes his hands on his pants because they fucking won't stop sweating and shit. "G-Good. Kinda. My friends said they've always known and were happy for me. My mom didn't say anything when I told her because she never says anything," Mac explains, his mouth forming words quicker than his brain can process. "Dennis and I visited my dad in prison, and I told him. He called me a fag. Dennis almost lost his shit."

"And Dennis is?"

Mac instantly smiles. "He's my boyfriend. He's been my best friend since were in high school. He tried to kill himself a couple months ago."

"How did -"

But Mac keeps going. "I was the one who found him, y'know? Like I came home, and there he was. He slit his wrists open with a kitchen knife. The ER doc said if I'd called an ambulance a minute later that Dennis would've died."

"That must've been a really scary thing to go through," Dr. Reilly says.

"It was," he agrees. His knees have stopped bouncing, and his shakes are almost gone. "He was in a psychiatric hospital for three weeks. I missed him a lot."

"Can you tell me more about your relationship with your parents? What was it like growing up in the Reynolds household?"

Mac shakes his head. "Oh, my last name isn't actually Reynolds. It's McDonald. I changed it because it sounds way more better than Mac McDonald," he says quickly. "But, yeah, I didn't really like my home. Once I met my friend Charlie, I was hardly ever there."

He explains the numerous broken bones and bruises from his father. He explains that his mom barely ever spoke to him. He explains that his dad has been in and out of prison Mac's entire life and that he's really against homosexuals. He explains that he's been in love with Dennis since he was sixteen.

Dr. Reilly is a good listener. She asks questions, but not too many. She lets Mac talk.

Before he knows it, the hour is up. Dr. Reilly talks about prescribing something for anxiety, but she says it's best to get two appointments under his belt before he starts medication. He sets up an appointment for next Thursday at the same time Dennis meets with Dr. Nichols. She shakes his hand, and Mac smiles politely before exiting.

Dennis is catching up with Martha, leaning against the admission desk and smiling. He immediately excuses himself once he makes eye contact with Mac.

"Hey, how'd it go?"

Dennis barely manages to get that out before Mac's lips are on his, kissing him because he can, and it's alright, and he loves him.

 **4:50 PM**  
 **On a Thursday**

"Happy Turkey Day!" Charlie exclaims, entering the apartment with his arm in a sling and a bright smile plastered on his face.

Mac nods from where he's finishing their feast. "Sup, buddy. Happy Thanksgiving!"

Dennis finally emerges from their bedroom, hair neatly quaffed and foundation and mascara perfectly applied. He's wearing a plaid button up that's tucked into his jeans. He looks good enough to eat.

"Charlie!" Dennis says happily, and Mac can't help but stare because this is so cute, and Dennis is so cute. "How're you doing?"

"Dude, you just saw me, like, a few hours ago. I was over here, and you and Mac were making out right there while we practiced reading," Charlie points out.

Dennis nods and gently claps Charlie's left shoulder. "It was hot, wasn't it? Me and Mac making out?" he questions teasingly.

"Babe, quit it," Mac says without taking his eyes off their perfect turkey.

Dennis and Charlie chatter and set the table while Mac slathers the rolls in butter before putting them in the oven for a few minutes. Charlie's smiling more than Mac's used to seeing in, like, two months. He seems to be doing better since his Uncle Jack died.

They take turns helping Charlie with reading and writing. Dennis got Charlie this sling that secures his arm right to his chest because Charlie kept flinging his wrist around and hurting it. Mac took Charlie shopping for some new clothes. They're trying to spend a lot of time with Charlie because they can't stand to see their friend so hurt and upset.

Dee and then Frank show up a bit later. Frank takes off his shoes and socks instantly and munches on every item of food they have with greasy fingers until Dennis calmly tells Frank to stop being disgusting. Dee and Charlie plop down on the couch and watch some Charlie Brown special Dennis turned on.

"Hey," Dennis whispers, wrapping his arms around Mac's waist. He peppers kisses on the back of Mac's neck. "Thank you for cooking such a wonderful dinner, baby."

Mac grins and turns around, enveloping Dennis in a hug. He sticks his left hand in Mac's jeans pocket like he owns it. "You're welcome, Den." He kisses the tip of Dennis's nose.

Each member of the gang helps bring food to the table. Eventually, they're all sitting and chowing down. It's peaceful. It's serene. No one is fighting or arguing or squashing their beefs.

It's like they're normal or something.

Mac looks around the table until his eyes meet Dennis's. He has such beautiful baby blues. His heart swells with love and affection and every good emotion he can pssibly feel.

Dennis kisses Mac's cheek.

Mac grins brightly.

He can totally get used to this new life with Dennis by his side.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**2:10 AM**  
 **On a Monday**  
 **Philadelphia, PA**

Dennis Reynolds is not a perfect specimen.

Not even close.

He isn't a God. He isn't mighty or powerful or all knowing. Mac understands that, when Dennis's narcissism and vanity happens to slip through his lips and into the open air these days, something is off. The medication has leveled out his emotions so much that he rarely dissociates anymore.

The air isn't lucky to have him.

The world, the universe, the galaxy, isn't lucky to have him.

But that's okay because Mac is here with him, and he's what really matters. Dennis doesn't want this relationship to go to waste. He doesn't want to fuck it up with useless, pointless, irritating imagery of Dennis being the God that he clearly fucking isn't. The scars on his wrists and the half-moon bruises on his arms are just even more proof of that.

Today is December 1, 2014. Christmas is in 24 days. It's on a Thursday this year.

Dennis trembles, his face hidden in his knees and back pressed against the bathtub. He pulls his hair over and over again, pinches the tender skin on his arms, but nothing works. He can't... He doesn't know why he can't snap out of it, but everything is dark and blurry, and he really wants to throw up. Really wants to see Mac. Really wants to do a lot of things right now.

There are 134 days until Mac's birthday. 75 days before Valentine's Day. 109 days until spring starts.

299 days until the anniversary, until September 26th.

He thinks of the blade, how cool and sharp it would feel slicing his skin. He thinks of the cheap, old, yellow disposable razors he used to steal from Mac, carving up his body and throwing them out like they meant nothing. Like Dennis hadn't just spent hours cutting and slashing in the bathroom, only to watch it wash down the drain moments later. Part of him wants to live in that blood.

Dennis and Mac got into a fight earlier.

Since Thanksgiving, Dennis has been feeling a little... off. He didn't really want to tell Mac about it because, no offense, the dude becomes a hypochondriac mess when he thinks there's anything wrong with Dennis. He knows his boyfriend cares; he cares with every fiber of his being and every muscle in his toned body. But sometimes Dennis falters. Sometimes, his steps forward in therapy and with himself become three steps backward instead.

This is the first time Dennis has been out of bed in three days.

Mac begged until he started crying for Dennis to tell him what's wrong.

Dennis couldn't answer. How could he? What thirty-eight year old man wants to reveal to his best friend and boyfriend that he wants to cut himself again? That he wants to breathe in the smell of crimson? That he wants to mangle his skin because it fucking feels good to be in the real world again? That maybe cutting will help ground him because he's floating around in space?

A mixture of tears and snot flow freely onto Dennis's plaid pajama pants; he doesn't bother wiping his face. Everything takes too much energy.

"Dennis? You okay in there?" Mac asks hesitantly, knocking quickly and quietly.

Fuck, he sounds so fucking scared, like a little kid or some shit.

Buck up. Be a man. Pull it together.

Dennis lets out a crackling sob.

Okay. Or let it fall apart.

Mac is in the bathroom in a second. Dennis never locks the door anymore.

"Hey," Mac whispers, wrapping Dennis up in his arms. Dennis crumbles messily into Mac's lap, and Mac starts to rock him back and forth. "You're okay, Den."

Dennis shakes his head and breathes shallowly into Mac's shoulder. Not here. He isn't here. Mac isn't real, and Mac isn't his boyfriend. No. It's ridiculous. Crazy. Stupid. Absolutely and totally nonsensical. Mac can never be with Dennis because Dennis is too big of a fuck up. Mac doesn't deserve Dennis in the slightest, so why is he here and being so nice?

The air thickens, and Dennis gasps, clinging onto the fabric of Mac's long sleeved shirt as hard as he can.

He inhales sharply when a hand touches his own.

"100... 99... 98... 97..."

Dennis lets Mac's steady, soothing voice pull him under like a tidal wave.

Mac's at 41 when Dennis snaps back into his own body.

"Please don't ever leave me alone again..." Dennis whispers. "Please, Mac."

He feels lips on his forehead. "I'll never leave you, Dennis. Never."

 **6:45 AM**  
 **On a Monday**

It's easy to assume that things go back to normal.

They don't.

What is normal anyway?

Dennis's old normal used to be fucking around and doing whatever he wanted. He used to manipulate and torture his friends. He'd be incredibly tense at all times, even when no one really noticed. He'd bang chicks and absorb booze like a fucking sponge and smoke crack. Nothing mattered to the old Dennis. Nothing and no one could ever faze him.

After a three week stay in a mental institution plus weekly therapy and a lifetime of mood stabilizers, one would think Dennis would be just like everyone else. He wouldn't feel compelled to self-harm anymore. He wouldn't feel the need to drink to numb himself anymore. He wouldn't feel the compulsion, the desire, the yearning to fall off the face of the Goddamn Earth.

He isn't normal. This isn't normal.

Dr. Nichols says the struggle will always be there. Dennis will always have to fight to be the person he wants. Apparently, it comes easily and naturally to some people. He thinks of Charlie and Dee and Frank, who are who they are without actually actively trying to change it. Dennis has to stop himself from being an asshole. Dennis has to use his filter. Dennis had to learn how to function like a normal human being, and, go fucking figure, he still doesn't know what that is, who it is, who to model that after, or what it looks like.

It's hard on days like these.

The days are random and meaningless. Most of the time, he's fine. And then, as if someone flipped a switch, suddenly he isn't.

He just has to cope with it.

Not move past it, but face it and learn from it.

His old ways did nothing but land him in the hospital, inches from ending his own life.

"I'm sorry," Dennis whispers. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Mac chuckles from beside him on the park bench. "Lots of things, but that's alright. You're allowed to have bad days, Den. I was just really worried when you stopped getting out of bed and started sleeping all the time. You would barely talk to me. It... It reminded me of before..."

Dennis nods, but he isn't sure what to say or how to think. His brain is nothing but a mound of miscommunications right now, wires and whatever other shit not doing their jobs. He leans his head on Mac's shoulder and shivers. They're outside at some park. It isn't ideal because it's December and really fucking early in the morning, but Mac's right; it is pretty peaceful. Dennis watches the snow fall all around them, engulfing his stomach with a sense of serenity.

He kisses Mac's icy coat, pressing his cheek further into the leather material. Cold seeps into his muscles, and he's shivering on a park bench wearing pajamas in December with his boyfriend by his side. Things are weird. Life is weird.

But life is better than death and emptiness and darkness.

Sometimes, it's hard for Dennis to see and hear and feel and touch, but none of that matters as long as he has Mac.

 **9:30 AM**  
 **On a Monday**

They're watching Four Weddings on TLC. Mac's spooning Dennis, an arm wrapped around his waist, even though the couch is far too small for two grown ass men to be sharing it like this. But it's warm, and there's a cinnamon candle burning on the coffee table, and Dennis isn't sure how it's possible for him to go from depressed to content this fucking quickly.

Actually, he does know how. Mac. It's always Mac. Always will be Mac.

"That dress is hideous," Mac comments, his voice low and tickling Dennis's ear. "Like, it's all ruffled and shit. This lady needs to watch more What Not to Wear."

Dennis smiles. "Is that show even on anymore?"

"So not the point, babe. Do you see that thing? She looks like a poodle."

Mac rambles on about the poodle dress, barely pausing to breathe. Dennis listens and kisses Mac's palm and traces patterns on his arms with his fingertips.

The show is back from its commercial break when a spark of electricity surges through Dennis.

"You'd marry me, right?" Dennis asks.

Shit.

Oh fuck.

But the inquiry has already left his mouth, escaped past his lips, when he realizes what he just asked. Dennis bites the inside of his cheek and starts pinching his left arm until he can make sense of the world again. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck.

Mac grabs Dennis's hand. Dennis fights back the urge to both burst into tears and pull his hand away so he can sort of self-harm a little bit more. He hears Mac breathing. He feels Mac's heartbeat against his back. It's too much. It's all too fucking much.

"Of course, Dennis," Mac whispers. "Of course I'd marry you."

Dennis's eyes widen, and he grins embarrassingly brightly. "Really?"

"Hey, don't sound so surprised."

Dennis shrugs. "Well, I mean, I'm kinda an asshole, so..."

"Yeah, but you're my asshole," Mac says. "And I love you."

Dennis smiles again. "I love you too."

Mac somehow pulls Dennis closer to him. They continue watching the show, tangled in each other's arms and wrapped in one another's hearts.

 **1994**

The summer after they graduate high school flashes before Dennis's eyes. Mac and Dennis spend everyday together. They smoke, they drink, they watch movies, and, usually, they fall asleep curled together in Dennis's bed.

Dennis will never admit that it's his favorite part of the whole summer. He's always so cold, even in the middle of brutal northern heat waves, but Mac warms him in every way imaginable. Mac just... He's the first guy besides Tom Brady to really make him feel something.

Mac should consider that a huge fucking feat because Dennis Reynolds doesn't internally admit that about just anyone.

Dennis neatly packs suitcases and duffle bags while Mac watches Dennis's every movement. Part of Dennis wants to tell him to fuck off, but a bigger part of Dennis wants to fuck Mac before he leaves for Penn in three days. He almost suggests Mac suck him off when Mac folds his hands behind his head and stares up at Dennis's ceiling.

Fuck. This sucks so bad.

"Alright, I'm done," Dennis says, flopping down on the mattress beside Mac.

"D'you think we'll still be friends once you leave?" Mac asks. "Like when you're a big college hotshot, will you still visit?"

Dennis wonders if Mac really means, "Will you remember me?" But neither of them says what they're actually thinking. They're men. That's what they do.

Mac inhales deeply when Dennis tangles their fingers together; Dennis smiles. He knows Mac has a huge ass crush on him. But Mac is so homophobic that Dennis is sure he'll push him away because they're conscious and only slightly buzzed instead of passed out and wasted.

"Dude, I'll be home on breaks and holidays. Some weeks too I'm sure," Dennis says. "And you can come visit me too."

Mac's eyes widen. Fuck, his eyes are so... hot. "Really?"

"Yeah, dumbass. I'm not just gonna disappear on you."

Dennis is almost shocked by his level of sincerity. He can't really feel it, much like he can't feel most emotions beside anger and jealousy and furious rage, but he knows it's true. He isn't going to just leave Mac in the dust because he can't. He fucking can't.

Mac doesn't say anything else. Neither does Dennis. He doesn't want to fuck up the moment. Instead, Dennis rubs Mac's knuckles with his thumb and begins to stare at the ceiling.

 **5:55 PM**  
 **On a Monday**

Guigino's isn't too busy, which Dennis grateful for.

"Oh no. Not you two."

Their waiter from all of their previous Guigino's Italian Restaurant adventures eyes both Mac and Dennis up and down.

"Relax, Patrick," Dennis says, squinting to read the dude's nametag. "We're not here to cause any trouble."

The waiter, Patrick, frowns. "I don't believe you."

Mac and Dennis just shrug at each other and follow Patrick to their table, who sets them up regardless of his accusations. Dennis can't exactly say he blames him. He smiles as Mac sits down, straightening his tie and polo shirt. Dennis can't help but wonder how he got so lucky. Mac is cute and perfect. He's always there. He understands and listens and tells crazy ass stories that make Dennis cry tears of laughter. Mac is so much.

Dennis just wants to be the best version of himself for Mac because he more than deserves it.

"Happy monthly dinner, babe," Mac says sweetly, stretching his arm across the table to hold Dennis's hand.

Mac calling Dennis "babe" and holding his hand in public is huge.

Dennis tries to hide the tears pooling in his eyes. He doesn't want to mess up his mascara or foundation, and he definitely doesn't want to cry in front of people. Mac gives him a napkin, and Dennis carefully dabs his face to avoid smudging.

"I never thought we'd be here," Dennis whispers.

Mac nods. "Me either," he says. "But I'm glad we are."

Dennis smiles and, fuck it, he just wants to be close to Mac; he scoots his chair to the other side of the square table. When he sits, his shoulders touch Mac's. "Me too, baby boy."

He seals it with a kiss.

Dennis may not be perfect or powerful. He may not have all the answers. He may never be normal.

But Dennis has Mac, and it's way more than he can ever ask for.

Mac is everything.


End file.
